


Four Points of the Compass Will Lead You Home

by cloudnoir



Series: Missed Directions [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Violence, Whipping, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 68,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudnoir/pseuds/cloudnoir
Summary: The Musketeers are forced to separate to have any chance succeeding in their mission. Trouble often finds them when working together but they aren't prepared for how deeply awry events unfold after they part.
Series: Missed Directions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087379
Comments: 76
Kudos: 114
Collections: Whumptober, Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME  
> Waking up restrained | Shackled | Hanging

_“Indeed, four men such as they were – four men devoted to one another, from their purses to their lives; four men always supporting each other, never retreating, performing singly or together the resolutions they had made in common; four arms threatening the four points of the compass or all turning to a single point, must inevitably, be it surreptitiously, be it openly, by mining, by entrenchments, by guile, or by force, open a way to the end they wanted to reach, however well defended or far off it might be.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

He was slow to wake, unsure if he overindulged the night before, since he’d been drinking regularly each night as part of their cover on this mission.

The world tilted sharply as he pulled his eyes open, and he would have fallen over but for his left wrist catching against coarse rope. _Just what had happened last night?_ Instead of face-planting his whole body swayed twisting in the morning light like a thick woven blanket hurled over the drying line. His left foot caught the air as he flailed, but his right brought him short of tumbling over and he registered the thick wood beneath it. The thick wood that pushed directly into the vulnerable arch of his bare right foot. A picket. Lovely.

Typically employed as an infantry punishment he’d never had the pleasure of this particular experience himself. His wine marinated deductions of his current state and recollections of last night were slow to surface. The four of them had split into pairs nearly two weeks past to investigate separate leads and separated again on arriving in their respective towns. He’d been making progress…no he’d identified…he had a list! He’d take more comfort in the success of his piece of the mission if the cacophony in his skull would subside enough for him to parse out the events of the prior evening. The color of the sky and relative quiet indicated the early morning hours and by the feel of his body it seemed – however he came to be wherever here was – that he’d only been out since the prior night. It had been quite late when he slouched out of the tavern.

For the moment he took greater comfort in cataloging his injuries and limitations, while ascertaining his current surroundings. Fortunately, the picket was not nearly as damaging as hanging from both arms, but it hardly made for unrestricted breathing. His captors had secured his right wrist to his waist in an awkward binding of rope affixed like a belt. Having a significant portion of his body weight hanging on the rope while unconscious meant that shifting his weight more onto his foot alleviated some of the pressure but the new blood flow to the wrist left him dizzy with nausea.

Disoriented as he was, he startled and sharply bounced his right foot into the wood when a voice rasped from over his left shoulder.

“Awake then?”

He craned futilely towards the speaker twisting to no effect and feeling like a child caught up by his disciplinarian. Well, he was no ungainly boy; he was a Musketeer.

And this Musketeer did not owe a man who would not even show his face any answers.

“Nothing to say?”

Clenching his teeth together to keep back a retort set off a cascade of pain from his head to his straining ankle. He locked his muscles and let his eyes track across the trees. That explained how he was suspended outdoors at least, and a glance upwards confirmed the branch arcing out from a tree to his left.

“Then we’ll see if a few hours there will aid your confession, murderer.”

Forgetting his resolve and that he’d only just managed to get himself steady he pulled hard on his wrist to swivel behind towards the disdainful voice. He only caught the man’s grunt and strained to track his retreating steps.

 _Murder?_ They’d removed his gloves which left him unable to distinguish the blood on his wrist as belonging to himself or his alleged victim. His fingers, more resembling talons in their tension, bore no traces of a violent encounter.

He’d been captured which meant he’d not be meeting his brother at the appointed hour or press on to reunite their foursome just south to Vernajoul as planned. The copse of trees he was facing indicated nothing to him about how far from Foix he might now be. This man, no there were several men from the sounds he could pick out behind him, had several hours in which to transport him. Their mission had been dangerous, as many were, but Treville’s tight turnaround and the scattered reports they’d had necessitated ferreting out information alone split across two locations.

They’d decided on a plain-sight system that would not require the pairs to meet up to signal each other via their horses using Athos’ scarf, Aramis’ sash, Porthos’ bandana and d’Artagnan’s…

Aramis had proffered a scented handkerchief which d’Artagnan had finally snatched before completion of the winding story of how it came to be in his possession. After an initial moue at d'Artangnan's crumpling of the embroidered fabric Aramis forgave his brother as tension and teasing ebbed and rose around the campfire that evening; they’d all have preferred not to part. There was no chance of them succeeding without operating separately and their apprehension of parting was affectionately covered with ribbing.

Agreeing reluctantly against using cards – much too complex and requiring face to face coordinating they couldn’t spare time for – Porthos devised and ran them through the various placement meanings in the “fancy flags” system. Athos insisted on a minimum quarterly check which made them responsible for updating their own signal, as well as checking their partner’s, by six in the morning, noon, six in the evening and midnight each day.

Drifting back to awareness he found the world brighter and sounds and smells carried towards him from what he was more sure would be several men moving around at his back. He groaned as his memory was sharp on laying the fabric out of his saddlebag in a direction to indicate the all clear just after midnight – along with an additional sign that he’d uncovered something – and his brother would have no reason to suspect anything untoward had happened. Nothing untoward except him not showing up at the prearranged time today. A complication to be sure, but not insurmountable. His brother would return to where he’d stabled his mount and see the position unchanged for hours over the day and eventually his no show would indicate a snag.

Murder was quite a large snag.

Except that it wasn’t murder, he hadn’t murdered someone. Had he? Blasted wine. Perhaps it had been laced? No. He’d been so careful. He’d rationed himself. Feinting drinking more wine than consuming, sloshing some in his false act, carefully wheedling information over the weeks they’d spent in their respective roles. They’d lodged separately, stabled horses separately, chased different leads and moved in different circles, he’d been so careful to maintain his role.

His aches were pressing in now, insistent on themselves over his determination to recall last night’s movements.

He could hear movement behind him and cooking smells wafted on the chilled air blowing at his back. His nondescript doublet was not nearly as warm as his own and he hoped the changeable weather would give way to a warmer afternoon, he’d take any small comfort at the present moment.

A snapped branch drew his gaze to the right, the boy had approached from his more open side from where he hung trussed.

He tried to smile but was certain pain distorted his face into a grimace instead. The boy continued to take stock of him regardless and stepped further out of the woods towards him. He’d not even marked the lad’s approach. Not a good sign.

“Boy! Come away from him!”

The boy’s focus instantly darted behind him, indicating that most of the men were over his burning left shoulder, and moved towards the summons.

“Best to keep away from this murderous cur, lad.”

The gruff voice from earlier was closer now and he kept his eyes fixed on the tree trunk a few feet before him. He bristled at the name calling but kept silent.

Vague flashes of a narrow lane, a soldier approaching, exchanging harsh but undiscernible words, he recalled fighting, they’d struggled, and he carried fewer arms than normal.

He sensed the man moving around his left and prepared himself to deal with whatever brigand or mercenary or thief or enemy had orchestrated his capture. Leaning back against the tree-trunk his captor crossed his arms and sneered up at him, “Ready to tell us who you are and why you murdered my man?”

He was not prepared to encounter another soldier.

A French soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never attempted a Whumptober before and it was a challenge to choose between Whumptober and Kinktober. If I was really up to a challenge I might've tried to combine them! But I went with this story instead. I am not sure I've done this correctly and I decided I wanted to try to make one story so I may have to shift the order of the days (hopefully this is allowed?). I'm already behind so I am posting day 1 on day 3! Considering this all started from reading the prompts and getting an image of the picket/tree/musketeer combo and I'm somehow planning to write 31 or so chapters? This is the result!
> 
> As an aside (as all of us know) it's been a rough 2020. I have been whumped myself for a while now and a lot of time recovering/continuing to recover gave me time to stream a bunch of shows I'd never seen before. This was a series I watched a few months back and I have been so grateful to read so many lovely stories. I've never tried fanfic so this one is coming out because I think when you're whumped you sometimes want to see it echoed elsewhere? Resiliency and survival give way to hope for ourselves and others? I can't say this will be good, I can't say it will remain in character, and I don't know that I can keep the plot consistent over so many days without re-editing but we'll see what happens! 
> 
> This is not proofread and all errors are mine so if you notice something glaring please gently let me know? Same goes for any errors in fulfilling a Whumptober, let me know if I've not done this right (kindly, please). Hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY  
> Collars

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“For behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

  
A French soldier was an odd surprise as his captor, unexpected as he was still piecing together all that had occurred overnight, but not at all unwelcome.

He could not reveal all the details of his mission to these men, but he would certainly be able to clear up this mistake. His right leg was shaking on the picket, though he barely noted it, as he once more attempted a smile that he was certain was less of a grimace this time.

“Monsieur,” he was feeling magnanimous now that he knew he was dealing with a fellow soldier and his mission was not as imperiled as he’d believed. Despite all he’d suffered at their hands, clearly mistakenly, he could afford to be generous negotiating his way free. Perhaps he could even persuade these men to assist him in service of the crown.

His breath hitched slightly, lungs straining from hours dangling from the branch, but with freedom so close he forced a rush of words, “It would seem there is some confusion, a misunderstanding, and I must say I cannot recall how we came to cross paths, but seeing as we are all soldiers of France I’m certain we’ll resolve the matter satisfactorily to all.”

He wobbled slightly in his earnest attempt to parley, “And given this small mix-up I can understand that your hospitality has been rather, well, austere…”

“Fellow soldiers?” The man leaned deeper into his slouch, eyebrow raised by his incredulity, and spit on the ground. “You’re no soldier.”

Perhaps he’d been rather hasty with his generosity.

He expanded his chest and raised his own brow in disbelief at the man’s continued hostility. In spite of the pain it would cause his left arm he shifted his weight to draw himself as straight as possible, “No, I am not a mere soldier. I am a Musketeer. And I am…”

“Hear that men?” The man’s hard gaze leveled on his prisoner, but he raised his voice so his derision to carry over to his men. “He’s claiming himself a ‘Musketeer.’”

The scoffs and taunts raised behind him and fell over his aching body like a net tangling his previously growing hope for freedom. He rolled his eyes and let some of his own frustration leak, “I am not claiming, I am telling you. I am a Musketeer and you are interfering with…”

“Enough! Quit your lies or this will not go well for you.”

All generosity exhausted with the continued interruptions and disbelief, he hissed as loudly as his screaming lungs allowed, “Interfering with Musketeer’s business is tantamount to a crime! Now release me and I will be willing to…”

“Murder is a crime!” The man lurched off the tree, using the momentum to sink his fist into his captive’s unprotected gut. “You insolent dog!”

Yanking him further down by his dark hair was made easier by the fact that his captive was nearly doubled by the cheap hit. His arm was threatening to tear loose of its socket under the tension, but he couldn’t get enough air to persist in his own defense. He disagreed with the characterization but to his chagrin a yelp broke from him as his right leg was kicked off the picket.

“You killed a loyal soldier of France and you’d best not lie to me again.”  


He was shoved to swing freely as the soldier stormed back to his men.

That most certainly could have gone better. With only a few more hours to the rendezvous he only hoped his brother would quickly piece together that something was amiss.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Athos drew deeper under the awning across from where his brother’s horse was stabled. In over twelve hours the signal hadn’t changed, the cloth appeared unmoved entirely. Having had no success in his inquiries he’d been heartened to see the designation that his brother had. 

_“Yes, a braid, my friends!” Aramis had grasped his own knees preening at the idea. His chin raised as he smiled in delight continuing his treatise, “Why, it’s a perfect signal and as we’re unlikely to be needing it daily it will stand out enough to all of us upon seeing it.”_

_He’d leaned back, dark gaze glinting in the firelight as he awaited their input._

_"Yeah, I guess that works,” Porthos shrugged, “braided Flea’s hair often enough."_

_Athos huffed but nodded, refusing to shudder at the memories of just how he’d acquired the skill. He tamped down recollections of braiding delicate blue flowers into dark curls gleaming under the sun and met his brother’s gaze steadily._

_Aramis had then turned to d’Artagnan leaning forward to await his confirmation. His smile retracted in honest inquiry as though he seemed to just remember his assistance had been required with the “fancy flag.”_

_"You do know how to make a braid, don’t you? It’s a rather useful skill after all and has proved convenient in the most extraordinary and unexpected of circumstances.”_

_“I know how!”_

_“In fact, a good Musketeer should…”_

_“Alright, alright” D’Artagnan relented in a pique. An embroidered lace flag waved limply from his hand as he frowned in surrender. Athos suspected it was more likely done to forestall Aramis’ listing of Musketeer qualities than in actual agreement with the idea._

_“Agreed then, a single braid to the mane.”_

_He’d surreptitiously watched d’Artagnan fold the handkerchief and stow it in the saddlebag at his feet with more care than expected with his bristling._

_“You realize it’s of significant import to me d’Artagnan. I will be expecting you to return it.”_

_D’Artagnan quickly righted himself and swiveled in askance towards his brother._

_Porthos kicked his legs out and Athos stoked the fire pit while Aramis smiled warmly at their youngest. Athos hoped he’d take the meaning for what it was, but Aramis spent so much time winding their youngest brother up these past days he couldn’t be sure that the well-meaning sentiment would be taken for what it was._

_“Perhaps you should not be so quick to part with such tokens of your favor then.”_

_D’Artagnan’s initial reply was cut off by Athos’ drawl._

_“Who better to bestow them on than my brothers?”_

_“I promise,” D’Artagnan smiled wryly but his eyes were sincere. “I’ll return it to you.”_

It wasn’t as though any of them could make such assurances with certainty, but it was meant as a comfort. Though d’Artagnan had acted alone in Paris on several occasions since becoming a Musketeer this would be the first mission that would see them all parting for a substantial time.

Athos found himself as touched as d’Artagnan had been at the subtle assurance offered by their brother, perhaps he’d even indulge him in the tale of its acquisition when they were all reunited. A matter that would be expedited so long as his brother kept their meeting tonight. His eyes fixed on the messy braid once more before slipping back towards the market.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

  
It had taken numerous attempts to return his foot to the picket. Hardly something one would willingly choose but given the alternative of waiting – not long he imagined – for his arm to separate from its socket it was his best option. Though it was of little comfort the changeable weather of late had meant that the chilled morning gave way to a warmer afternoon as he'd hoped.

He suspected it was afternoon anyway. He’d been offered no food and the man had not returned. The sounds and smells of another meal were drifting over, and his stomach grumbled lowly even as his bladder twinged. How late it was he could not guess, but he suspected another changing of the signal had been missed and hoped Athos would take note.

Tilting his head up he tried to take comfort in the sun’s warmth and further consoled himself with thoughts of his brother. Athos would certainly have been able to convince these men of his rank. He laughed out a breath at the image of Athos imperiously gazing down his nose from the picket at his captor in expectance of his release. Perhaps he should try to engage his captor with the same calm.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Mongrel,” as if conjured from his imaginings the soldier stepped around to face him, leather and chains gripped loosely in his hands. “Oh, pardonnez mois, Monsieur…Musketeer!”  


Loud guffaws rumbled from behind and he breathed out sharply in annoyance.

Trying his damndest to channel Athos’ “head over heart” mantra he breathed back in deeply. He felt like growling as he was growing rather annoyed with the canine comparisons but settled for a cold glare instead.

“Something amusing? I certainly did not think you’d find your position humorous.”

“The only thing humorous is the trouble you will find yourselves in if I am not released. I have told you I am a Musketeer, now save us all some unpleasantness and let me down.”

The man’s eyes shuttered and he clenched tighter at the restraints he held.

“No. We are done with this farce. I warned you not to persist in lying to me.”

He stepped forward dropping the assorted leather to the ground and raising the chains.

“Gilles!”

Sensing another approaching he’d expected to see this Gilles but shouldn’t have been surprised when the rope at his waist tightened instead. Before he’d even registered the rope had been removed his right wrist was held out for his captor to affix a shackle. His arm was soon forced overhead, and the other end of the shackle clamped down on his throbbing left wrist. They’d worked in tandem and he’d had no opportunity between the rope unwinding from his raw wrist to the securing of the shackle. The rope dropped from the thick branch he was secured to and coiled like a snake.

His world spun and he was forced to close his eyes as he found his right leg off the picket once more. At least this time it was less aggressively done, but dropping his arm proved as piercing as hanging from it. He contemplated kicking out with his booted foot as his captor turned for the rope but knew his legs were barely supporting him. Hemmed in as he was currently, he’d have to trust another opportunity would present itself.

With the rope holding the chain between the shackles it was thrown back over the branch but secured to the picket driven into the ground. Gilles had meanwhile bent to hobble him using the rope that had been around his waist. He eyed the pile of mismatched leather strips on the ground.

_What would Athos do?_

“Whatever you believe, I assure you, I am the king’s own Musketeer.”

Again his captor bent to the ground – ignoring him – and he truly regretted not being able to kick him earlier. The man was more infuriating than the cardinal’s men, damn him!

When he rose, he held up a crudely tooled leather belt. The punctures were uneven and freshly made and if the man thought to strike him with it then he’d happily wrench both his shoulders to kick his smug face.

“And I say you’re just a mangy mutt.” He threw the belt over his captive’s neck and tugged him down, grabbing at his hair to shake him. “And that makes me your master.”

So, he wouldn’t be striking him with the belt it seemed.

It was a collar.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY  
> Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint  
> Warnings: bodily functions, choking

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“A person who doubts himself is like a man who would enlist in the ranks of his enemies and bear arms against himself.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_What would Athos do indeed?_

His scalp burned as the man continued to shake him like a disobedient pup. Buckled now, the roughhewn collar had been cinched tight enough that he knew it would chafe.

Cold detachment and diplomacy weren’t working.

_What would Porthos do?_

Porthos would bite the man.

Yes, maybe he should emulate Porthos instead.

Then again, biting would do nothing to refute these ridiculous dog references. _His Master?!_ As soon as his teeth stopped rattling, he’d have something to say to that!

Except that the vigorous shaking reminded him of a problem that had been escalating all morning. It would be hours yet before he’d consider requesting water, and he could likely wait until at least tomorrow for food, but his bladder was now pressing after what he’d estimated was well over ten hours. He loathed even thinking to ask it, but it couldn’t be helped and perhaps might turn them back to a more civil interaction.

“Now. I expect some answers.”

Off the picket they were of a similar height, and with the hand in his hair pulling his head lower he needed to look up to make eye contact. He also needed to angle a bit as he was slightly skewed due to one foot remaining bare to the grass.

“Right. Except for one slight inconvenience. I can only guess how many hours it’s been and I do need…”

The man’s lack of surprise and satisfied smirk made him wonder if he’d been waiting for the ask. He ruffled his hair slightly before pushing his head down.

“Look at that lads, guess we ought to let the dog relieve itself, hey?”

Porthos. Porthos would definitely bite this man.

He settled for glaring at him as he straightened. Grasping at the connecting chain he was able to yank himself nearly to his full height. He’d barely gotten his bearings when meaty palms – Gilles’ he assumed – groped at his belt, roughly opening his trousers before dragging them to his calves.

He rattled the chain above him, motioning his hands, looking askance at his captor.

“You won’t be needing those, filthy mutt.”

A nod to Gilles and the rope went slack. A kick to the back of his knees with the added tangle at his ankles dropped him onto them before he was consciously aware of the fall. He strained to get back to his feet but one of those meaty hands grabbed the collar and forced his head up. He bent with it, bowing his back in an effort not to choke.

If he wanted to keep breathing, then he’d have to remain held on his knees.

The man was a soldier, he’d lost a man, and however it happened he seemed to think he’d caught the responsible individual. Thinking of his brothers he couldn’t help a sliver of empathy as his own vengeance might take precedence over the protocols of justice if anything happened to them. This man wanted his pound of flesh and it looked as though he’d have to do things his way – for the moment.

“Go on then.”

His wide eyes snapped to his captor in disbelief. _Surely, not._

Another nod to Gilles had the collar tightening further and he was forced back, his spine bowing awkwardly. The man couldn’t be serious, he hadn’t wet his smalls…well, he hadn’t even done so as a child as far as he remembered. He was regretting the missed opportunity for kicking. He was reconsidering biting when he could breathe again.

As the pressure continued to increase, he found it enough of a distraction to allow himself to release. It had been hours and it was becoming painful enough that he rationalized it was inevitable regardless, besides when a man’s choices were to keep breathing over a minor embarrassment, all things considered, his pride could endure. Especially as he had no doubts the man would let Gilles strangle him and his choice in the matter would be forfeit.

Of course, when the tension on the collar eased and he relaxed his spine relief bled into humiliation. He let his eyes remain unfocused and felt his face heat to match the warmth spread between his legs.

He bowed slightly forwards now and breathed shallowly to counter the burning of his throat. His eyes stung, exclusively from the restricted airflow. He clenched his fists preparing himself as his captor stepped closer.

His chin raised with the muzzle of a pistol. “I told you, you filthy animal, I am the master here.”

He liked to think that slamming his forehead into the man’s own was what d’Artagnan would do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME  
> Mugged | Field Medicine  
> *slight changes to today's prompt

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Then by degrees the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Oi! You look like somethin’ dragged twice over through the Court!”

“Porthos!”

His chest swelled at the sight of his brother, though he was understandably concerned at the sight of him after more than a fortnight apart.

“What the hell happened to you, ey?”

He tucked the lad in a one-armed hug after securing his horse alongside d’Artagnan’s to graze.

“S’just a scratch.” D’Artagnan bumped his shoulder to Porthos’ but leaned closer as he stoked the small fire.

He’d arrived about an hour earlier than planned and used the time to make a quick meal for them before they’d set off to meet their brothers late that night. Their rendezvous was closer to Foix and he and Porthos had longer to ride to meet them. Thinking he’d had a bit longer than he did, his still rolled up shirt sleeves left him no means to hide the makeshift bandaging on his forearm. He supposed the shadowed bruises at his chin didn’t help either, not for the first time wishing he was able to grow a beard as thick as any of his brothers.

“Mmmhmm,” Porthos’ cocked eyebrow didn’t indicate he’d been convinced, “lemme see.”

Keeping his right arm securely around his brother Porthos lifted d’Artagnan’s injured left with his own.

He complied, he didn’t object to Porthos’ inclination to fuss and after so many days alone d’Artagnan’s troublesome pride offered no resistance.

“You been keeping it clean?”

“Porthos, please.”

He huffed as his brother settled the arm on his own right thigh.

“Just checking. You think this is fussing, just wait ‘til Aramis gets a hold of you.” He gently unwound the cloths and got a look at the gash across d’Artagan’s forearm that trailed sharply into the crook of his arm.

“A scratch, huh?”

D’Artagnan’s shrug lightly jostled the arm over his shoulders and he just tucked his head on Porthos' shoulder in lieu of answering.

He wasn’t embarrassed, per se. They could all be rather stubborn – Aramis most ironically of all despite being the first one to insist on looking after the barest paper cut on the others – in admitting injury. And Athos seemed to take personal offense at his body's inability to not obey his wishes and instantly heal itself.

Prideful on all their parts to be sure, but for d’Artagnan he was loathe to admit a very small piece of himself still feared to be seen weak by such gallant men. They were his friends, his brothers, he didn’t doubt that. Not at all. However irrational it might be – his commission proven well-deserved several times over now that he’d earned it – he’d not yet settled the part of himself that feared being discovered false. He never wanted to give cause for these men to see him as lesser, or worse undeserving of the favor they’d bestowed him.

“Least y’had the sense not to wrap it in that fancy kerchief. He loves you, but he’d be unlivable for days if you did that.” Porthos chuckled and if he was aware of d’Artagnan’s introspection he didn’t remark on it.

He did catch himself to ask, “You still got it, yeah?”

D’Artagnan did bristle at that, any insecurity dispersing under a flash of frustration that passed as quickly as it rose. “Of course!”

Porthos snorted in the face of d’Artagnan’s affronted yell. “Good lad. Got any of that balsam left?”

Porthos determined that it wasn’t deep enough for stitching.

“What’s so important about that one, anyway?” D’Artagnan asked distractedly as he pulled his mom’s salve from the saddlebag tucked at his feet. Aramis was still after the exact recipe and d’Artagnan had confessed to Athos a certain delight in withholding it. It wasn’t malice, he shared it always and freely amongst his brothers, but he took no small pleasure in teasing the man that he just couldn’t be sure he remembered all the ingredients. Every batch Aramis had attempted to replicate thus far had been serviceable but not the potency of the original. Once his brother eased off the “good Musketeer” business he was sure he’d be able to remember the full list and measure of the ingredients.

“Claims he got it off his first love.” Porthos snorted, “Still don’t know the whole story, but you know how he gets.”

“A Musketeer never tells, yes, I know.” He did have to admire the man, for all his indiscretions he was rather discreet about the details.

“Gonna tell me what happened?”

D’Artagnan was hoping he’d just redress the wound and they could be on their way. He even made the stew to distract him! Well he was starving too, and he’d not been able to afford a meal in two days, but he still hesitated to confess how he’d come by the injury.

He kept his eyes on the fire and let the rhythmic stroking of Porthos distributing the salve settle him. Athos was hardest to admit injury to as his desire to be close to the man warred with his need to impress him. Aramis didn’t judge and he had an easier time disclosing to him when necessary, but he always probed further, wanted to be sure he didn’t miss anything. Whereas Aramis attracted you to him, Porthos invited you in; he let you come to him in your own time and he’d just sit silent with you if that was what you needed.

It was that silence that allowed his confession to slip free in a whisper like a candle guttering out.

“I was robbed.”

To his credit Porthos’ fingers never stilled. His arm lifted off his shoulder to rewrap the bandages and then he just rested his hands over d’Artagnan’s on his knee.

He squeezed lightly, “You get ‘em?”

D’Artganan snorted, “Two days later.”

He lifted his head to meet Porthos’ eyes in the fading daylight. “I swear I don’t know how it happened. I was so careful! Steps from my lodgings too, and I’d hardly drank anything that night, I think I was drugged!” His free right hand tugged at his locks impatiently.

“I tracked him down, but my purse was already gone. I turned him over and, well, anyway I found out nothing in town.”

“Me either. I think it’s mainly coming out of Foix.”

“I don’t suppose we could leave the robbery out of our report?”

Porthos barked out a laugh. “Just between us, eh? You wanna try telling ‘em you got that just doing basic recon I won’t stop you.”

D’Artagnan sighed, maybe the balsam would heal it enough that he could pass it off as scratch? Unlikely in a few hours. Perhaps he could delay them from seeing it? As long as nobody grasped his forearm, but how to explain his lack of coin? And the bruises on his face.

“Aw, just let it be.” Porthos gripped his near shoulder mindful of the injury. “Athos’ll be more concerned ‘bout your report and that you’re in one piece. He certainly won't be angry at you, or think any less of you. And Aramis’ll just be happy you got his kerchief. That you brought it back safe.” He squeezed the shoulder hard to emphasize his meaning, “That you’re safe.”

If d’Artagnan had looked like an unhappy pup before, he brightened considerably at this. He shook his head and reached towards the dwindling fire to offer Porthos the rest of the meager stew he’d managed to scrounge.

Nothing some decent food couldn’t fix. Though it was thin Porthos was grateful for the effort and eased back to tuck into the meal before they had to start out for the others. One thing he admired about the lad was his quickness to move on, he was a hothead sure, but his brother’s eagerness to belong with them always overruled his stubborn temper and quick-fire anger.

They had that in common, Porthos was quick to a brawl but also quick to move on. And loyalty was something that resonated bone deep with him. He’d missed his youngest brother these long days. Though Vernajoul was less populous than Foix he’d not once crossed paths with his brother the entire time, not even a glimpse of him despite checking his mount more frequently than required. As d’Artagnan flopped his head to Porthos’ shoulder once more he couldn’t help but pat his the dark locks in fond acknowledgement.

Once you got past his pride the boy was easy to love. Athos and Aramis were no less swift to enter his heart, but unlike the quick won affection of the puppy-like d’Artagnan those two were more like cats. Or defiant kittens scratching and hissing at one moment, standoffish the next, then they’d plop in your lap unexpectedly and refuse to leave your side.

He never wanted to leave any of their sides if he were honest. Swallowing the last of the broth he relished a few more minutes leant beside his brother. No sense lingering overlong as a few hours would see them all reunited.

Porthos just hoped the rumbling sky would hold off its threats until they reached Athos and Aramis.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Agitation seeped slowly through Athos like the mind drift born of consuming wine, but without the pleasant side-effects. His muscles were tightening, and old injuries ached in warning of the oncoming storm that threatened this evening.

_Where the devil was Aramis?_

He was now over an hour late to their deadline and he was running out of time if he expected Athos to wait around on his leisure. Athos had slunk past the stables boarding his brother’s horse as many times as he dared in the late afternoon. Stopping short of inquiring at the man’s actual lodgings his frustration was ratcheting quicker than Treville’s waiting for one of them to confess to a quarrel with the red guards.

Unlike some of the towns and cities their missions had called them to of late Foix gave Aramis no leeway to complain of boredom. The man had been positively gleeful in his approach to this mission. _“Danger, subterfuge, and clandestine messages? Athos, it’ll be a grand intrigue!”_

Aramis had chattered ceaselessly on their lengthy ride to Foix, they hadn’t needed to part for some time after separating from Porthos and D’Artagnan.

 _“And the Ariège wines, Athos!”_ They’d been slowing up to rest one final time before parting to make their way on separate paths towards Foix. _“Have you ever tasted the magic of grapes grown near the Pyrenees mountain range? My dear brother, they are delightful.”_ He’d said so sagely as though he’d sampled them in abundance, and he likely had given his rotation of high-born liaisons.

Athos kicked some dried dirt off his boot on the edge of the tree where his mount stood as he hesitated once more peering down the road in futile hope of willing the man and his own horse to come prancing down it. He recalled how Aramis had dropped his reins and gestured expansively to the beautiful landscape on all sides, while continuing to espouse and compare fruity blends, to describe sharp flavor and robust taste.

He’d tweaked his mustache and waved a slender finger at Athos, _“You are going to be in heaven, my friend.”_

This was decidedly not heaven. And he could only hope Aramis was merely tarrying overlong finishing a bottle of these boasted wines before realizing he was damned late to meet him.

Over all these years exasperation was often a safer refuge for him where Aramis was concerned as the alternative meant giving in to apprehension for the more likely scenario that his brother was in trouble.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

He was running out of time. He’d almost certainly missed their meeting by now, but they were closer to the rendezvous point and he didn’t doubt Athos would wait on him as long as possible before setting off to meet the others.

Athos would be displeased and Aramis hoped he’d see his way to forgiving his no-show and turn that stubborn fury to locating him. Porthos would see him through to it, surely – he’d spent years softening the bickering between them – uncannily knowing when to intervene and when to just let them be to sort it themselves. They both enjoyed philosophizing and debate, and arguments could become quite passionate though they’d just as easily find themselves slouched before the garrison fireplace or in their own apartments reading or sharing wine. D’Artagnan’s addition further rebalanced their relationships and for the better as far as Aramis had thought on the matter.

He had to get to them. He could not recall all the events that had transpired as of late, but he knew what he’d uncovered was vital. He had to get that information back to Treville, either under his own power or getting it to his brothers, somehow. The Captain needed the names of the conspirators, they would finally flush them out and make the arrests that would stop the scheme they’d uncovered months ago. It was amazing how many plots and threats went unrecorded to history only because they were uncovered well before their ramifications made an impact on the general public.

Any empathy Aramis had for this man’s dead comrade was long past weighted against his mission. He was practically seething in his rage at their impudence in delaying a Musketeer’s business – granted at the time of his capture he was an incognito Musketeer – and it was only his indomitable pride that prevented him from bellowing at the indignity. Talking had gotten them nowhere after all.

Then again, his captor had not been pleased with Porthos and d’Artagnan’s methods of diplomacy. He could still feel a sluggish trickle at his temple from where the pistol struck him earlier. The jolt to his own skull had been worth the initial hit to his tormentor, but the pistol strike to his temple was unforeseen collateral damage. Still, it was worth it to see the blood pouring between his fingers like a cracked flagon of wine.

He needed to escape somehow. His chance to catch Athos was receding, but there was still a possibility of making the collapsed old barn on Mathilde’s property they’d all planned to rendezvous at late tonight. His brothers wouldn’t leave until daybreak at the earliest, perhaps later once Athos met them alone. If he could get to them before then, there was a chance to head off the confusing search that would ensue and the possibility of missing each other on the road. Then again, if he could just get free to make his way to Mathilde’s even if he missed them, he would be able to pass a message along as she regularly corresponded with Treville and could dispatch a rider for him. Excepting that he didn’t know where he was!

All his plans were for naught if he couldn’t take leave of his captors.

He strained to see around him, but while he’d gotten himself off the picket, in a manner of speaking, being secured to it wasn’t proving much better.

Aramis’ neck was lashed to the thick picket through a rope “lead” connected to the damnable collar. It was fixed so short that it prevented him from raising or turning his head with any great range. No more than a foot off the ground and he couldn’t twist behind due to the hobbling of his arms and ankles. But he certainly heard them off behind him. All afternoon the taunts, and some sticks, had been flung at him.

And Aramis was now shivering this far removed from their fire, his captor had stood over him still clenching a rag to his nose and ordered him stripped him to his smalls, before staking him down, “Behave or you won’t even keep those,” he’d hissed.

Fortunately, a long afternoon exposed to the heat had dried out his smalls, but Gilles has forced a thick branch across his back and through his arms at the man’s order. With the shackle chain held tight to his stomach he was shivering from both the cold and unrelenting waves of muscle cramps.

Aramis dropped his forehead to the picket and eyed the bowl of water that he would need to drink, but his pride was not near assuaged enough to try. He recognized it as one more taunt against his humanity, the man was overt in his cruelty he’d made that plain, _“Master," hah!_

Gilles had been efficient in constraining him, and though he still remained unseen what he felt and sensed of the man set him thinking to Porthos. His strength only as he smelled nothing like the warm musk of his friend, and Gilles’ arms were thick with fat over muscle. They were large and stocky and nothing like the heavy sinewed muscle of Porthos’ sturdy frame. Pain was indeed making him delirious! And now he dearly craved his friend, he wondered if Porthos would manage his way free of this bondage?

_No, no focus._

_Porthos would focus._ As large a man as he was he was nimble and when his lock picking dexterity failed his strength often sufficed. Pick the lock hmm? Maybe if he could wedge closer to the picket, he could release his neck then maybe pick the lock.

_…but with what?_

Or release his neck to get his arms free? Except the branch was so thick it pulled the chain taught into his stomach making it impossible to dislodge or loosen it to slide one elbow off. Years of Porthos’ most patient efforts has left him no better at the practice of lock picking even if he could manage to materialize something to try it with. The reminder was no less aggravating to date and amused his brother to no end. Porthos often joked that he could dislodge the cap off the cardinal’s head if he chose – and they’d all been tempted to ask him to try on several occasions – but he happily crowed that Aramis was rubbish at picking locks.

Maybe he should attempt drinking the water. Being forced to lap up life giving fluid like a dog to amuse his captors was surely no greater humiliation than being forced to soil his braies.

In fact he was getting lightheaded and surely delirious as he’d swear to the cross that the visage before him was a mini-Athos. _Well, perhaps a child Athos? What Athos looked like as a boy? A…little…Athos?_

He wondered at how much of his present pleasantness of personality was apparent as a child? _No, no his brother’s standoffishness belied his kindness._ He’d have been decent to the servants, probably dismissive as was his way, but never cruel… _a tiny comte in training…Lord he must have been drugged, or he was dehydrated now or…_

“Lieutenant says you’re to eat this.”

He nearly choked himself lurching against the collar.

_His apparition speaks!_

“Little Lord Athos” held out a crust of bread pinched between two fingers.

_See? Decent. He knew it! And that dusting of freckles was rather endearing._

“Did you hear me? Don’t you want it?”

He imagined feeling the collar constrict tighter as he swallowed and cocked his head as much as the rope permitted to consider this odd little boy. The buckle and lead held firm though and he situated himself finally so he was in no danger of choking unless he attempted to stand. His gaze moved from those clear eyes to the fingers inching closer with the bread on offer.

“Leave it, boy. If the bastard can’t be grateful, then he can forage it off the ground.”

The lad didn’t move.

_Stubborn, just like his brother._

“It’ll taste better without any dirt…?”

Aramis couldn’t help the stuttered breaths that released in a closed mouth laugh.

“That it will, thank you.”

Even with the boy’s meager height and his own stooped posture he still had to crane his neck to retrieve the small morsel. As he was straining to get enough saliva to protect his teeth from cracking on the stale lump his eyes pricked as the boy bent for the bowl.

Faster than he could be caught by “the Lieutenant” the boy tilted the bowl to his lips.

Not one to waste an opportunity Aramis shoved the rock of bread to his cheek to allow as much water as possible into his dried-out mouth.

It was the work of a moment for the rest of it to wind up splashed over his sunburnt face.

The lieutenants hand swung back to smack his mouth as it rebounded from slapping the bowl from the boy’s hand. Aramis clenched against the sting to protect as much of his winnings as he could. He swallowed roughly and bit into the semi-softened bread before daring a glance at the man. Best not to smirk. He wasn’t risking the bread on another strike.

But all he saw was the back of the lieutenant’s legs as he rapidly instructed the boy on the proper watering of prisoners. He rolled his eyes and let the smirk settle over his lips.

Little not-Athos’ eyes skittered back to him despite his current chastisement.

He met the boy with a wink.

And he was graced with a nod the lieutenant no doubt thought was agreement to his edicts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?  
> On the Run | Run! | Failed Escape

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow. ”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The lantern cast just enough light to finalize his message and Mathilde promised it would be sent first thing the next morning when she’d parted earlier.

Athos sat back and stared at the lantern’s tiny flame. They’d stayed in the old, collapsing barn, when they were last here to stow their pauldrons and doublets before setting out weeks ago. It was a small farm, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing them. They came and went late at night, well after Mathilde’s farmhands left and her father was long asleep. He still hadn’t forgiven the regiment for widowing her.

_“Worried I’d slipped off for a clandestine meeting with the lovely widow?”_

_The voice drifting out behind him halted his agitated stride._

_“I worried over your absence; did I need to make it an order that none of us are to be seen?”_

_“If it were, you know I’d only find it greater temptation to wander astray.”_

_Smirking Athos turned back, and he could just discern Aramis’ profile as he waited to see if the others would follow through the open barn doors._

_“They’re both still asleep, there’s a few hours yet.”_

_Aramis’ deep sigh carried as he tipped his head back against the wood._

_“I do not want us seen; Mathilde’s aid is not without risk.”_

_“I’ve gone no further than here and there’s no moon, Athos.”_

_“And you are outside because…” Athos braced his leg up and settled just close enough for his shirtsleeve to press to Aramis’._

_“May a man not admire the stars?”_

_“You’ve had days to do so on the journey south.”_

_“I cannot sleep.”_

_If he pressed closer to Athos as he said it neither man marked it aloud._

_“It would be unlikely to bring comfort to her to know how he died.”_

_"And yet, so often their ghosts hold us back from living."_

_Athos nodded once, but didn't speak._

_“I know I can’t tell her. I know that it is of little ease to know how it happened. It won’t bring her peace to know they had no chance; that they defended each other as best they could. Or…or how cold the ground, how quiet it was…”_

_Aramis’ chin tucked low to his chest, but Athos gently maneuvered his head onto their tight-pressed shoulders._

_“We’ll wake the others in two hours.” Athos tipped his head to the barn settling in to keep vigil._

_Aramis gave no reply but the weight on his shoulder increased._

He was still staring at the lantern flame when the barn doors swung open to reveal his brothers.

“I hope you’ve left us some,” teased d’Artagnan cocking his head towards the bottle at Athos’ hip as he led his mount inside.

Porthos stood still in the open door despite his own horse nudging at his back to escape the rain.

“Where is he?” Porthos remained unmoved and his eyes were fixed on the single horse in one of the barn’s still functional stalls.

The barn was no longer in use, a larger one built closer to the house, but it was serviceable, and the roof still held enough to keep them dry. Even if someone had reason to come out to the property this late at night there was little chance they’d need to enter.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan had secured his horse and took a step forward, his eyes flicking between his two brothers as if he was unsure which of them to move closer towards.

“He didn’t meet me.”

His skull hit the boards before he was halfway through the statement. Porthos had made it to him in two quick strides and dragged him up by his doublet, “And you left him!”

Everything about Porthos’ posture indicated violence, but Athos just met his stare.

“Aramis didn’t show and you just left him?” The anger was still there but his eyes were pleading with Athos for any confirmation that one of their number was not left to face danger alone.

Athos’ eyes tracked over Porthos’ shoulder as his horse trotted in to escape the rain. He nodded to d’Artagnan and shifted his gaze back to his brother knowing the mount and doors would be secured.

“It was the best option.”

“To abandon him?” The growl was easily heard over the rolling thunder. Had Porthos been less fixated Athos suspected he might have preened at the dramatic flair.

“I could not search for him in a city so populous. All my leads yielded nothing these weeks, and I had no covert options to try going back. It would have proved more wasteful than beneficial.”

“So you just left him.” Porthos dropped more of his weight through his hands to press Athos to the wall.

“But we’re going back,” d”Artagnan asked from their peripheral, “aren’t we?”

“Of course we are.” Athos didn’t turn but brought his hands up to encircle Porthos’ wrists though he put no pressure in the grip.

“But this time,” he angled to catch them both in his gaze, “we’re going in as Musketeers.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

It was like when you were sick and you could hardly remember a time when you had been well. Constricted breathing left you feeling there was never a time when you had breathed easily, or it was so far in your past that the memory of it seemed unattainable. His body ached so deeply in the chilling rain he found it easier to try to find a part of him that did not hurt to aid his escape.

The taunts tossed his way when they took their last meal of the day came with rocks. The lieutenant made it clear he was going to press him for his business in Foix after their meal. Nature had other plans for them though and they’d left him alone to seek the shelter of their tents. At least the projectiles ceased, and he would be left alone overnight, but that left no fire to see with and his braies were meager against the wind driving the rain.

This was his best chance. He’d contorted himself not long after the storm started which had shown him the tents and their tiny camp. It also confirmed they’d set no watch to guard him in the increasing rain. The lieutenant undoubtedly pleased with himself for leaving his prisoner to the elements.

_We’ll see how pleased when he finds his prisoner gone._

Well, not see, being gone was rather the point.

The shackles were staying, his pride could admit that was unsurmountable. The slippery bark might enable him to work one side loose.

He knew his ankles were bleeding, he’d already confirmed it earlier when he tested the length of the rope tethered between his legs to keep him hobbled. Aramis could just catch them in his peripheral if he bent one of his legs outward, awkward but worth the pains. Although the soaked rope had only tightened with his efforts, and the sodden grass was breaking to mud the more he tried to move.

_And yet…_

The mud ridden earth was maneuverable!

If he couldn’t loosen his bonds from himself, perhaps he could release the picket. He knee-walked forwards, slipping into an awkward straddle over the wood stake to grip and pull. It was driven in deep, no doubt hours of his own body weight contributed to that. He still felt the sting from it on his right arch and flexed his foot to relieve the raw flesh.

He started badly as “Little Athos” materialized.

Shouldn’t he have heard the approach? Lord help him, his head was half fog.

“Are you…” he looked down at Aramis’ hands slipping over the rope, before he whispered so lowly Aramis thought he dreamed it, “…are you really a Musketeer?”

The child looked as though his whole world centered on the answer; entire campaigns were lost and won on infinitesimal moments like this. Aramis held so still that he felt the tracking of each droplet sliding through his beard.

“On my mother’s grave, I swear it.”

The boy’s face pinched in an indeterminable expression.

_This might be a problem, should’ve gone with the crucifix, perhaps?_

At the next flash of lightning the boy nodded with grave solemnity. He produced a small knife and began digging it into the mud around the picket.

Aramis spared a glance heavenwards and regripped the edges of the wood to rock it. Together they worked at it, the ground squelching at their efforts, until there was enough of a trench to slip the rope fixed round and under the stake looser. With the added leverage and weakened ground Aramis drove the picket forwards and free of the earth. Unbending he startled when the child appeared at his right elbow to begin pushing at the branch.

Once more they worked in tandem to maneuver his bonds and Aramis swallowed rainwater to prevent a moan breaking loose. His mini Athos had moved behind and he tolerated the biting pain as he knew the boy was working the rope at his ankles to free him. While he’d have loved to remove the collar the buckle was behind his neck and it slipped, the leather tight from several hours in the rain. He wouldn’t sacrifice the time to redirect the boy’s efforts to it so he rolled his shoulders and lifted his hands to work the lead free of the hated collar.

If he reunited, no. When. When he was reunited with his brother he was going to lock himself up with Porthos until he mastered those pox-ridden lock picking skills. Pun intended.

“What’s your name, lad?” He leant closer, his whispered request an earnest desire to know.

“Pierre.”

A ripple of affection warmed him as the seriousness of his tiny co-conspirator reminded him once more of Athos.

Athos. And Porthos. And d’Artagnan, whom he needed to get back to.

“Well, Pierre, you have my deepest gratitude.” His eyes tracked quickly over the secured tents, “I don’t suppose you know where my clothes are?”

His hope was crushed on the boy’s soft, “In the Lieutenant’s tent.”

Well, that was out. Running through the dark woods at night in his underclothes would be a disadvantage. With shackles. And lacking boots.

_It doesn’t matter._

He needed to leave, no telling when one of them might exit the tents.

“Are we still near the city?” Eager to be away he kept his fingers light on Pierre’s shoulder to mark where he was and watch the slick surfaces of the tents.

“Not far, but…on foot? No boots. Half a day? And, and you need clothes, and you’re injured.” Pierre looked more skeptical as he recited his list.

Aramis couldn’t disagree and though he needed to be away he also knew charging into a dark forest with little means of protection was a fool’s errand.

Athos often called him a fool.

“My home isn’t far.” _Not likely to be without complication_ , but he could get his bearings at least.

“It’s only my father and I.” _More complicated_ , though his intermittently rational mind knew the boy certainly couldn’t live alone. And one person was probably easier to convince than a family.

“He’s a physician.” _Much better._

His eyes must have indicated his lessening skepticism to Pierre. His posture was strong as he whispered, “He could help, I’m sure of it.”

_Could? Possibly. Would he though?_

If he took the boy as guide it might lend credence to his tale. He wasn’t optimistic of his chances showing up in shackles, half-naked and injured at a stranger’s doorstep after dark in in the middle of a storm. A pauldron truly opened many doors.

_Too risky._

He didn’t know Pierre’s standing with the soldiers, but he likely worked for the garrison in some capacity if he was out here. Assisting the escape of a prisoner – he was no murderer, thank you – would not go without punishment.

“Alright. Tell me the quickest means to get there.”

“I can show you to a shepherd’s path, it’ll lead you there, it’s much closer than Foix and you just follow it. They’ll never know I’m gone, and I can make it back well before they notice."

Hardly a sound plan, but it was all he had and truly he’d done more with far less before. A sharp nod and then he followed the small figure deeper into the trees.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

He’d like to say he was within sight of Pierre’s home when he heard the pursuit, and he’d have preferred Pierre was long gone. As it was? They’d been gone no more than a quarter of an hour.

It was enough time for Pierre to explain his direction for when they parted, what they were looking for and the boy’s best advice on getting his father to listen to him. Aramis strongly suspected the man was just as likely to shoot him as to shelter him, but as long as he was breathing afterwards there was a chance he could find a way to communicate to his brothers or Treville. It really might have worked, with a bit more time. 

The rain sheeted practically sideways now and that it interfered with his ability to distinguish all the sounds around them. He grabbed at Pierre and titled the boys chin to meet his eyes.

"Give me your knife."

Pierre groped at his belt, stricken, "It must have fallen."

“Promise me, whatever happens, do not confess your aid.”

“But…”

“Go. Quickly!”

Pierre tilted a step back, still hesitating.

“Run!”

Perhaps it was because Pierre did remind him so much of his noble friend that he had the will to leave without a backwards glance. He tore off heedless of anything but evading the soldiers for as long as possible. He wasn’t a fool, no amount of desperation would keep him from outpacing men on horseback while bootless and weaponless.

The sopping ground was a boon in that it spared his bare feet some of the deepest cuts and it cushioned his collision with the rocks. It’s stickiness, however, slowed him and balancing was a challenge as his center was thrown off with every stride.

He couldn’t make out anywhere that might serve as a hiding place. Their horses were crashing closer now, and Aramis tried to make the most of his freedom even though he knew it was futile.

His injuries were flaring, every impact of his feet brought a sharp jostle to his muscles and a burn that no amount of rain would cool. Dizziness tilted him and the darkening edges threatened in on his periphery. His lungs however were what finally forced a stumble and the sudden stop nearly collapsed him. Aramis caught himself against slippery bark to his right and braced against the tree listening for his pursuers. He couldn’t hear the horses.

_Dismounted._

“Christ!”

He didn’t care. He well knew you kept quiet when being pursued, and you shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, but when you were hunted and bleeding and cut and alone and tired. And, you had a crossbow bolt…in your thigh. Well, that made circumstances more forgivable.

He gave himself high praise for being upright to snarl at the lieutenant who stood behind him a sword raised now that the crossbow had been emptied.

“Hardly the impressive skillset we’ve long been led to expect from the Musketeers.”

“And yet,” Aramis wheezed, “you called me Musketeer, perhaps good enough to convince you, no?”

“You mistake me,” he moved closer, pushing the blade’s tip into Aramis’ exposed side, between vulnerable ribs. “Their reputation.” He sliced backwards cutting a stripe along Aramis’ side. “You are just wet stray.”

The lieutenant returned the blade to point at Aramis’ throat.

“I am,” Aramis launched himself savagely forward, “a Musketeer!”

He’d been more than patient with the officer, had circumstances been different he might have even offered his assistance in solving the military murder. He understood vengeance, he’d tear anyone apart who harmed his own brothers. But there were limits.

They rolled in the thick mud, dislodging grass and cracking branches in their sloppy tussle, and Aramis hurled his elbow into the man’s chest as he pushed at his sword arm. Their wet fingers aided him in dislodging the blade, the shackles were an impediment, but he might have even retrieved it had it not been for Gilles. The man sidled up behind and his arms locked under Aramis’ and crossed at his neck.

Then “False Porthos” hauled him off, but he got his revenge kicking down and landing a heel on the lieutenant’s stomach. He barked a laugh, which left his mouth open when he landed face-first in the muddy grass. The lieutenant’s red, soil-spattered face appeared above and blocked the rain from his own as Gilles’ heel pushed between his shoulder blades.

Heedless of the dirt he pressed on, “If we return to Foix I will prove it to you, now let me up and…”

The leather pressing to his cheek should have been foreseen. The lieutenant’s face disappeared under the sole of his boot, but his voice was clear, “The only place you’re going is back on your leash you miserable…”

“I demand you release me!”

“Demand! You demand?”

He had to try.

_At least the kick to the throat was creative._

“You demand nothing! Nothing! You ought to be grateful I don’t kill you where you lay!”

Aramis was again rethinking his approach as he choked. It was a forceful kick. 

He spluttered out a dark glob of mud, or perhaps blood, both were equally likely as the boots lifted away and he raised his head. He leaned more towards blood when his spine slammed into the tree, the bark no doubt drawing more of it as it dragged over his unprotected back.

He glared at “False Porthos.” Coming face-to-face with Gilles his speculations were proven: this man was nothing like Porthos. Gilles’ glower, meant to be intimidating, was lacking. There was a menace to Porthos’ glares that was downright elegant.

“Lash him to my horse.” The lieutenant ordered his remaining two men as he pushed between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having way more fun with this winding mess than I thought? I even managed some d'Artagnan/Porthos whump and comfort last chapter! I know it's been very heavy on the Aramis whump, but it's hard to rotate in a continuous story. It's strange how you plan one thing and then they pull you elsewhere. Hopefully you're enjoying this! Thank you so much for the kudos and encouragement!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 6. PLEASE….  
> “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“For all evils there are two remedies - time and silence.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis bit his lip against the screams beating at his throat in waves. What was another cut at this juncture?

The bloodied shackles stretched forward as he trailed behind the lieutenant’s horse. Thick rope connected to the chain and pulled it taut from where it connected to the saddle. The man atop the horse hadn’t glanced back once as they walked back towards the soldier’s camp.

At least the rain had dwindled.

The cold water had done little to ease the searing heat from his newest wound. It burned. A soldier became intimate with injuries and he’d taken musket balls before, knives, even an arrow once, this seemed worse.

He’d been held fast as they secured him to the horse and he’d no time to probe the wound himself. The bolt needed to come out, he could tell that much. The burn never subsided and only intensified with every step’s pressure. At least it distracted him from his torn-up feet, next time he escaped it was going to minimally require his boots.

“Move!”

He stumbled at the tugging; he’d not been aware he’d slowed.

He bristled and it was a close thing not to dig his heels down at the order.

Gilles and one of the other soldiers rode on either side of him. A vindictive part of him thrilled at forcing them all from their dry tents to slog through the storm after him. If the lieutenant ordered them all after him that meant there were only four holding him captive, not terrible odds. One failed escape notwithstanding of course.

“I said move, goddamn you!”

This time it wasn’t close. Aramis yanked hard on the connective chain to the shackles dragging downward on the rope to the lieutenant’s horse.

He counted it a small victory his mouth was closed when he hit the ground this time. His sluggish thoughts had little time to process that before he was wracked with pain.

The lieutenant drove his horse forward into a canter and Aramis had no traction to even attempt to right himself. He tucked his head as best as he was able between his arms and focused on minimizing the damage. The muddy ground did nothing to cushion him on the high-speed slide as his body was dragged over roots and rocks, shredding at his torso and legs. His arms were spared solely because the rope attaching to the saddle pulled them upwards.

You could kill a man this way.

By the grace of God they were near enough to camp that it was over shortly after the thought crossed his mind.

He’d not been able to withhold a scream when the heavy bolt caught on a root. Very little in his life had he been more grateful for than the halting of the lieutenant’s horse.

“Lieutenant!” Pierre’s voice broke through the haze of pain.

Aramis had collapsed on his right side, still enough sense to keep the bolt off the ground. Curled inwards he could tell the bolt had sunk deeper into his thigh and how saturated his smalls were around it with blood. From his prone position he still managed to see the boy edging closer.

“Where the hell were you?”

“I’m sorry Lieutenant.” He looked down and Aramis would have been impressed with his acting if he hadn’t been in such agony himself.

Pierre eyed the lieutenant squarely, “I was in the woods, I needed…and then…I heard you all. But it was so dark…the storm. I didn’t know how best to help you save returning to camp to wait.”

“Yes, yes. Alright. Secure the horses.”

The lieutenant dismounted, his boots stopping just before Aramis. When he focused again he was facing the man and snatching breath against the grip the lieutenant had through the collar.

“Sir, maybe we ought to bring him to Foix?” He’d not anticipated “False Porthos” being of assistance to him, but Aramis was on board with Gilles’ suggestion.

Not nearly as good as escape, but still a better option than his current predicament.

“A secure guard at the Chateau and means to get a confession. He may not have acted alone, sir.” The yet unidentified soldier spoke. They’d dismounted and approached at some point; Pierre was somewhere he was sure. But there were four. There had been four.

One of the soldiers was missing. He’d counted in the woods. Hadn’t he? Had he?

Dear God, he was exhausted.

“We have the means for it ourselves! He killed Correau because he’d been found out, because Correau uncovered his mission in Foix. This animal carved him up, likely would have left him to bleed to death if he wasn’t so frightened of being discovered,” at this the lieutenant turned vengeful eyes on him.

The officer twisted lead and collar but Aramis’ eyes never left his even as they lost focus, “but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? No, you strangled him and left him lying in the muck!”

Aramis couldn’t even hiss a denial, the collar was so tight, his airway blocked, as he hung by the neck before the man’s righteous anger.

“He’s going to confess exactly why Correau was after him, everything he was planning, who his accomplices are and then we will take him to Captain Fournier in Toulouse. He can rot in prison there until the Captain sees fit to dangle him from a rope.”

He turned from Aramis then, slacking his grip, and eyed his men.

Neither dared to counter him.

Aramis breathed deeply, filing his lungs while he could.

“Lieutenant Corneul!”

“Papa!” Pierre cried.

 _Papa?_ Wait. He knew this. He did.

_What was it the boy had said?_

“Dr. Corbeau, good of you to come. You have my thanks. You will be compensated. I apologize for the hour, but we need your assistance with an escapee.”

Oh good. A physician, he needed one of those.

_Fournier. Correau, Corbeau, Corneul._

Names, something about the names. Names were important. Something about the names. He’d had names. A list!

The newcomer had dismounted and marched towards the lieutenant. He ran his hand over Pierre’s head gently without slowing his approach. Pierre trailed after silently.

“With digging his grave?” The doctor arched an eyebrow at Corneul.

Under far different circumstances Aramis thought he might like the man.

“May I presume you want me to tend him so you may further question him?”

“Eventually.” Lieutenant Corneul dropped him then.

The bolt shifted and he curled once more against the pain. Between the pain and the shackles he did not bother with an attempt to rise. The sharp throb of the bolt subsided just before his vision blackened at a thunk of pain to his shoulder.

“How did you escape?”

Another thunk. Ribs this time, and the bark dragged over the deep cut Corneul had carved along his rib bone.

Bark?

“Stop! Stop, please, you must stop this.”

“Doctor, surely you know it’s best to beat a dog at the moment of disobedience.”

He had retrieved the heavy branch that had yoked him earlier. Aramis looked on in disbelief as the doctor caught it on the downstroke.

“No more,” his voice was level. “Lieutenant. I understand your grief, truly. This will not yield the answers you seek; you cannot obtain a confession from a dead man.”

Aramis held still. _Please, Lord, let him listen. Please, no more?_

“Allow me use of one of the tents and I will remove the bolt.”

Lieutenant Corneul relinquished the branch but didn’t move.

“Rest, Corneul. Your men will help me secure him. I assure you information will be easier to obtain tomorrow once you’ve slept.”

_Sleep._

Aramis wished for its respite as he watched Corneul walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Condensed whump? Sorry it's shorter. I am hoping to get ahead on the prompts a bit to have a shot of not losing the plot? Meh...it's the whump that's key, right? Right! Hope it was enjoyable!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 7. I’VE GOT YOU  
> Support | Enemy to Caretaker

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“I have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Hold still, damnit, hold still!”_

_The injured man just thrashed nearly dislodging the two trying to get at his bleeding wound._

_“Please, you must keep still, or I cannot sew this closed!”_

_More blood seeped over and coated fingers trying to staunch the flow._

_“Porthos!”_

_Both Porthos and Aramis turned at the sharp command. Only Porthos was knocked out from the punch though._

_“Well, he is still.”_

_“He is, now stitch it closed.”_

_“That was…”_

_“For the best.”_

_And it was. And continued to be the way with Porthos for years to follow._

Drifting in his memory Aramis would not object to the method being used on him if Athos were here to offer it. If he had the ability to form words, he’d ask his “False Porthos” to do it. He was burning with pain and would swear this was what traversing several circles of hell must feel like.

A punch. A kick. He’d beg for either if it would only grant relief!

As he was manhandled, presumably to heal him, he could sense how deep the bolt had sunk. It would not release easily. And it felt melded to a leg wet with blood and sweat. Visions of chunks of muscle being pulled from his leg flashed beneath his lids.

He flailed trying to reach the hands pressing at the thick bolt.

“Hold him down!”

Aramis didn’t gentle; he struggled harder, resolved to protect his leg.

How would he explain such a gaping scar?

He would need an extremely grand tale for it. He would never admit to yelling himself hoarse and passing out on the ground beneath a meager canvas tent.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“It’s true, Papa! I know it is!”

“There has been suspicion of spies for some time now, this man could be anyone, Pierre.”

“Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord,” he really liked his tiny defender.

“Psalms? I am not sure your prayers should be for others right now, whoever you are.”

He refocused on the doctor, had he said that out loud?

“And if he is a Musketeer?” Pierre persisted.

“That is not for us to determine, son. My role here has already been decided.”

“But Papa,” Pierre’s back was to Aramis as he slid under his father’s arm as though he might will the man to believe. “You always say, ‘To bear with patience wrongs done to oneself is a mark of perfection, but…’”

“…’but to bear with patience wrongs done to someone else is a mark of imperfection,’” Aramis overlapped Pierre’s careful recitation. He met the boy’s eyes with great affection as the boy turned in surprise, “’and even of actual sin.’” It surprisingly didn’t hurt all that much to pull his lid into a wink.

“And Aquinas as well.” The father just moved his arms round his son who’d gone still gazing at his wounded Musketeer. “A spy might also be a learned man.”

Aramis had to concede that.

“Pierre, if you insist on staying awake then you are going to help.”

Now that his major injury was dealt with Dr. Corbeau must have been tending the rest of him while he was passed out. He still felt moments from oblivion, but he wanted to speak while he retained the opportunity.

“Here, apply this to his feet.”

Pierre grasped the pot tightly and smiled at Aramis before moving quickly to kneel to his task.

“My leg?”

“The bolt held back any deep bleeding, kept clean it will heal.”

“Cauterized?”

“Not necessary, the stitches will hold.”

_Unlikely once Corneul wakes._

“You work for the Lieutenant, doctor?”

“I am in the employ of…” the physician halted. He peered down at Aramis, “and would not a spy be looking for information as well?”

Aramis frowned. At least the man was speaking calmly to him. And he’d not made a single four-legged reference.

“Raise your left arm, please, I’d like to check that cut on your rib.”

The shackles clinked.

“You seem surprised.”

“I’d merely forgotten,” he’d been near manic with pain when the soldiers brought him in.

“Around his ankles too, Pierre.”

Aramis raised his head to smile his gratitude. Or he would have if he’d been able to lift it. Rope abraded his beard and the smallest of tugs in either direction confirmed it went around his neck to be secured to both sides on the ground.

Dr. Corbeau raised his eyebrow at him.

Aramis returned it with a huff.

“Papa.”

“Pierre.” His tone carried a warning, but a fondness too. Again, he thought of Athos but this time for how the doctor's tone addressed the boy.

“I was only going to ask how else I might assist you?”

“Calves, so long as none of those cuts are still bleeding.”

Aramis barely felt the small hands as Pierre tried to apply the balm without hurting him.

“The Musketeers…”

“Well, you certainly seem to have convinced my son.” 

“As is written, ‘out of the mouths of babes’…”

“I do not think many would agree that children should be advising on justice.” He guided Aramis’ arm down. “That will need stitches.”

“Perhaps not, but their innocence lends them more inclination to seek truth impartially. They’ve not yet had the time to become as jaded as we men.”

“Or as corrupt?”

“Some men are.”

“And you are not?”

“I cannot claim that, only that I am no murderer.”

“Corneul believes you are.”

“Because he will not listen!”

“Boucher told me enough, though I would have preferred my son removed from this entirely.”

“Then perhaps he should be with his mother and not Corneul.”

“No.” Corbeau threaded the needle. “Heaven has no need of him for some time yet.”

That accounted for the pinched look earlier and he stretched as far as the ropes binding his neck would give to address the bent head. “I am sorry, Pierre. I was parted from my own when I was about your age. I’m sorry that you’ve lost her.”

If his father noted the careful wording, he chose to let his son take comfort in the words as they were spoken.

“Thank you, Aramis.” The boy’s smile was thin, but he meant it.

“Aramis?”

“I suppose you were only told of the…prisoner.”

“Names matter little in the face of deeds.”

_No. No, names were important here._

“Might I ask your name Dr. Corbeau?”

For a moment Aramis expected to hear “you might” and was pleasantly surprised to hear “Claude” instead.

 _That was a name, he knew it._ If he could just clear his mind further.

Perhaps he might risk a little more.

“As you say, Claude, there have been spies and I swear to you my brothers and I were sent on the king’s business to uncover it.”

“Then if they are your brothers, and you are in fact Musketeers, they will help prove your innocence. And if you are a spy then they will not, will they?”

“They will come, on that I would stake my life.”

“Aramis, I rather believe your life is already at stake here.”

“Papa, if the Musketeers need help then we should…”

Fond exasperation resounded in every word, “Pierre we have no evidence of that.”

“If…” Pierre’s head appeared in his vision as he came back to stand at his father’s shoulder. “If you might see your way to believe me then I may be able to provide some. My horse,” Athos would not have taken her, he was sure of it. “She is at the stables attached to the Golden Basket. There is a blue sash hanging from the saddle bag on her left, drape it out of the side closer to her tail. My brothers will know to meet me there.”

“And if I do not believe you?” Claude pierced his skin to begin closing the long cut.

“Then I suppose you will reveal all this to Corbleu and he will do with it as he pleases. I think you know as I do though, that he will not bring me to the Chateau and I do not believe he will take me to Toulouse either. He desires his own revenge.”

“I cannot tell you what I believe,” Claude pushed his arm towards Pierre with an order to hold it away, before directing Aramis, “Now, keep still.”

Aramis was asleep before he even felt the first stitch seam his skin together. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?  
> Abandoned | Isolation

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“I have lost my friends…I have nothing left but the bitterest of recollections...”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“I confess. I do not care for the man.”_

_“No?” Porthos followed his stare to the newly commissioned Musketeer whose head was bent toward Treville. The two had been conversing near the smith’s anvil for some time now._

_“No. He’s too…” Aramis paused resettling against the post at his side, “…smug.”_

_“Nah, ‘e’s not smug. Standoffish, yeah? Bit rude.”_

_“Imperious!” Aramis hissed as he tilted his arquebus._

_“I guess.” Porthos stood angled towards him but stole glances to the other pair over the men practicing in the yard. Treville’s bark of a laugh carried across the distance._

_“No trials, never even a recruit.” Aramis poured a packet down the barrel._

_“You weren’t.” Porthos didn’t think he heard._

_Aramis jammed the powder down, pistoning the metal harshly. “Simply turns up waving his blade as if he were born sword master of all France!”_

_“He is skilled.”_

_“Skill is no cause for arrogance, my friend.”_

_Porthos eyed him. “Really?”_

_“Mmm” Aramis nodded rapidly. “He carries himself as though some skill with a weapon makes him superior!”_

_“Never was a Musketeer that might do that, huh?” Aramis spared him a glance as he stowed the rod._

_“As if it affords him the right to strut the garrison correcting us all!”_

_“And Musketeers never strut.” Porthos rocked his weight on his heels and crossed his arms._

_“Never, Porthos.” He said with solemnity and leaned towards him holding the weapon parallel in both hands._

_“At most, a Musketeer…” he slipped the weapon to his side letting it hang from his baldric and cocked his hip. “…well…swaggers, with confidence!”_

_Porthos was not certain there was a difference, but with Aramis in such a pique he declined asking for clarification._

_“Treville asked him to give pointers,” Porthos was surprised to find himself countering his friend._

_Aramis took a breath and his throat caught on the air. “Do you mean to tell me you are impressed with him?”_

_“Well, he did help me with…”_

_“_ _For God’s sake, Porthos!” Aramis hissed. His brows rose in incredulity, before accusing, “You let him instruct you?”_

_“It was good advice.” Porthos said without inflection._

_Aramis said nothing as he turned. He strutted out and raised weapon to target, his sleeves billowing like the ruffled feathers Porthos was imagining on him._

_At least to Porthos, it looked like a strutting. Aramis’d likely say it was a swagger._

_The arquebus discharged loudly over the blades meeting in the yard. Aramis only had eye_ _s for the man at Treville’s side._

  
_Let the new Musketeer try to instruct him in this!_

_The garrison was mostly empty as Aramis tipped his cup chasing one more swallow of wine. The new Musketeer, sorry – Athos – was long gone, and he and Porthos were finishing a cheap flagon between them._

  
_Porthos slammed his cup to the table, letting his remainder spill out, and got up without a word. He was striding out of the garrison before_ _Aramis’ cup moved from his lips, “Porthos?”_

_“Porthos!”_

_His friend was already out of view of the arch._

_Drat._

_Surging upwards Aramis left the cups strewn on the table quickly calculating the third of the bottle sufficient recompense to Serge for the mess. He strode quickly around the bench to chase his friend._

_There was a negligible difference in height between them, but as Porthos stood taller than most he was easy to track. Well he was hardly trackable when he did not wish to be but it seemed he was not trying to conceal his way now._

_Aramis followed him through the lanes and alleys, before he ducked into a doorway. Had Porthos taken new lodgings without mentioning it? He smirked, had he forgotten a pre-arranged tete-a-tete with a paramour?_ _This did not seem a place Porthos would rent, nor a woman would agree to meet. Curious._

_He crossed the street and made his way up the stairs after catching sight of Porthos’ broad shoulders tucking into the apartment on the upper floor._

_Strange. Grooming his mustache, he wrapped on the door, then fluffed the lace at his cuffs._

_It swung open, “He does not wish to see you,” came the imperious voice._

_“You!”_

_“Leave.”_

_What in all the circles of hell? “No! I shall not leave! Move.” He craned his neck trying to see past into the apartment, “Porthos!”_

_“Go.”_

_“I don’t take orders from you. Porthos!”_

_Porthos didn’t want to see him? No this was not right. He’d never abandon him._

_The door slammed shut._

_No, this was not right._

_“Porthos, please!”_

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Porthos!”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut on waking. No, that was not what happened, they had laughed over it together…eventually.

Porthos still teased him _“You were jealous, admit it…”_ to date, reminding him about that afternoon in the yard.

Athos and Porthos were often incorrect with details in the retelling of it. But Porthos and he had finished the wine that night, he hadn’t walked away. There had been some banter, but those initial weeks and months gave way to the dearest friendship he’d ever known. Not in him being abandoned. Not with them shut away, out of his reach.

Not in him being hurt. He was so tired. He wanted his brothers. He had to get away from the camp but he didn’t even know if his left leg would bear his weight now. And he was so confused, everything was blurry.

The mission! He still had time to…no, no he would not catch them now. They’d have to come to him. They’d find him, they would. It was only a dream, a cruel warp of memory; he remembered that day and it hadn’t happened that way. He’d ask Porthos. He was so confused though, so very confused.

“Athos?” Pale eyes swam into his vision, before the rope choked him, His eyes wouldn’t focus though. “Thank God. Is Porthos with you? And d’Artagnan?”

“Shhhh.”

“No, we need to leave. Please, Athos. Before they wake? Let us go to the Chateau, or Toulouse, the Captain, we must send word back to Paris!”

The blurry eyes moved away, leaving him alone on the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD  
> “Take Me Instead”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Not Athos.

That would have been a pleasant dream though, his brothers finding him instead of walking away.

It was – not Athos – Pierre’s light eyes that hovered above him to wake him from fretting in his sleep.

“You were starting to make noises.”

Aramis figured shouting for Porthos was problematic if he wanted the men to keep sleeping. Corbeau’s form was lain near the tent flap so perhaps not as loud as he thought.

“I didn’t want them to come check.”

Aramis did not either. This whole affair really wasn’t going well for him and he imagined being beaten with a stick was the least of what Corneul would devise for him today. It was today wasn’t it? The chilled air and stillness gave off hints of early morning. Maybe he could stay suspended between the waking and sleeping hours with his little friend until his brothers came, and was that not a worthy dream?

“The Lieutenant’s really angry with you.”

_Understatement._

“Correau was his friend, Aramis.”

 _He could understand that_ , though he was done with patience for it.

“What is it, Pierre?” though Aramis suspected he knew why the boy looked troubled.

“Did…” Pierre looked at his knees where they just touched Aramis’ side, hesitating, but he met his gaze again, “did you kill him Aramis?”

Some reasons were more justified than others, true, but whether on the whims of his monarch or to save a brother he’d never fired without a reason he could not reconcile to himself or to God. He was no murderer.

That did not mean he didn’t kill Correau. He didn’t think he did, he didn’t think he’d ever met the man, but his memories were foggy on everything since his last evening in Foix.

“I am not certain.” His kind inquisitor deserved his honesty.

Pierre said nothing, looking disappointed, but he didn’t move from Aramis’ side. He rallied quickly, seeming to finally understand that Aramis would not give him a false reassurance to make his own way as a prisoner easier.

“I do not believe I ever met his soldier, Pierre, but if he will bring me to Foix or Toulouse I will assist as best I am able in the matter. I have my own mission to complete and it’s vital I get word to the Musketeers. I’ve been delayed too long already.”

“I don’t think he wants to.”

No, Aramis did not think so either.

The lieutenant was clearly enraged over the man’s loss and Aramis bore the blood-inked mapping of his vengeance made over flesh. If the officer intended to bring him to justice at all it would not be coming anytime soon, not before he had the answers he wanted to bring his Captain or the full measure of his retribution.

And yet, if they went to either city Aramis would be able to get word to Treville and his brothers, he could still salvage the mission. The Captain! Yes, the Captain Fournier, he knew that name, he knew the man! The Captain knew Treville! Fournier was in Foix, no that was not right, he was supposed to be, but he wasn’t. Curse this mind-clouding pain.

Aramis began to drift, his vision unfocused with pain and no small amount of confusion as he again tried to pick through his memories. He was tired with conceding to himself how much he hurt.

“Would you like more medicine?”

Medicine? He supposed Corbeau had provided him something to ease his sleep and pains then but in his exhaustion he didn’t recall being given anything.

He looked over at the small vial Pierre offered.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Val – valin – valley?” Pierre’s brows pulled inwards as he stumbled over the words.

“Valerian.”

“Yes, I think so!”

That explained the twisted dream alright, he never reacted well to the herb. Vivid dreams were not a problem on their own, but while most people tolerated sharpened visions, he experienced skewed memories in sharp relief and near hallucinations at times. He was just sensitive to it. Porthos had always found it amusing, until Aramis nearly killed Athos and drowned himself one lovely July evening.

Wonderful tincture if you could tolerate it.

“Thank you, no.”

Pierre again looked disappointed but didn’t press. Instead they spoke quietly into the dawn, keeping their voices low from drifting to wake the doctor.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Send him out here, now, Corbeau!”

Aramis was pulled back once more from distorted dreams at the lieutenant’s sharp order. It seemed his reprieve was ended.

He felt hands hovering at the rope binding his neck down, moving haltingly about to loose them, “Just a moment, these bindings are…”

“Not that mongrel!”

Back to the familiar routine then. Wait, not him?

Corbeau froze at that too.

“The boy! Out here, now!”

In the briefest of instances Corbeau and Aramis were allied in their confusion.

“Now. Pierre!”

Aramis couldn’t see beyond Claude, but he heard the tent rustle at

Pierre’s quick exit. Claude’s hands absently worked to loosen the rope and titled his head to monitor the happenings outside.

“Explain this!”

“It’s my knife, sir?”

Oh. Not good.

“You admit it’s yours?”

“Yes sir, you know it’s mine. I must have dropped it. Thank you for…”

“Dropped it? Perhaps you lost it when aiding an escape!”

Claude’s eyes bore down on him, face contorted into an ugly vision of rage Aramis would not have thought the man capable of hours ago. The healer’s hands grasping tight on Aramis’ throat – in either intention or distraction – before he pushed away to hasten from the tent.

“I didn’t! I told you…”

A slap on skin is a distinct sound and it’s made all the sharper when dealt in relative silence.

Made more fun when delivered by a lovely lady in the right circumstances, preferably a lady with scant clothing. Or Constance, Constance gave a good slap. Admittedly.

No, focus. He needed to focus, but it was so maddeningly difficult. At least Claude had loosened the rope enough that his head moved freely to eavesdrop.

“Do not lie to me!”

“Lieutenant!” Claude’s intervention should halt the violence.

“Your son aided a criminal, Doctor. This does not concern you.”

“You believe this because you found his knife?”

“I told you I was in the woods because…”

“Quiet, boy!”

“Pierre! Anton, he dropped a knife, that’s hardly tantamount to aiding a prisoner.”

The unrestricted anger calmed to a hissed accusation Aramis strained to hear.

“It’s not. A knife stuck in a hole between rope and where mud dried over it is.”

Oh.

“Move aside.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Hold him.”

“No!”

The whistle of leather is also an unmistakable sound, and Aramis discerned it as Claude’s shout cracked in time with the first strike. The first because a man like Corneul was hardly a forgiving officer. His early morning with the boy had finally clarified to him that he was a squire of sorts to the lieutenant. When Corneul had been woken to deal with his man’s murder it was on an evening Pierre was stayed over at the garrison. He’d been curious about the separate home outside the city, but had not had opportunity to ask further as Claude had woken and begun checking Aramis hadn’t pulled free his stitching.

Another lash struck and the boy made no sound. How many was that, three, four? This was why Aramis, even in the direst situations, never liked enlisting amateurs. He’d risk his own skin with abandon, but it never sat well being so cavalier with the lives of others. Well, he knew his rest wouldn’t last long.

Aramis wavered in the early morning light. His leg was decidedly not strong enough for this.

“He didn’t…” Came a defending rasp. Aramis was rather proud he was on his feet and speaking, but he was mainly upright through his own resolve than being in any way healed. Still he kept his voice firm, “he didn’t. It was me. I threatened him.”

Gilles had the boy stretched to his toes, crushing his wrists in the shackle of large hands.

Claude was held between Boucher and the other soldier.

“You.” Has so much loathing ever fit into so small a word?

“I forced him to help.”

The belt hung loosely but Aramis could see the tension in the lieutenant’s wrist, clearly ready to strike his target.

He just needed a new one. And Aramis would provide.

_He can take me instead._

“Threatened him? While tied and chained?”

“You think a grown man can’t get a child to the ground? I guess the Musketeers are more skilled than your own soldiers.”

“You miserable dog!”

_Yes, they had covered that._

Corneul stepped back, Gilles still held fast to Pierre, and the officer considered Aramis as he stretched the belt between his hands. He motioned to Boucher and the remaining soldier that had yet to be named. The other two released Claude, which would have been more of a comfort if they hadn’t grabbed Aramis between them instead. Then again, keeping upright was becoming a challenge.

“An officer blaming his failure to set a watch by beating a child. It seems the garrison at Foix needs to revise its standards.”

“You wretched…”

Aramis tuned out the rest, some unremarkable reference to his standing as an animal surely, in favor of breathing through the pain. The man might have measured out a controlled set of lashes to Pierre, but for Aramis he struck wildly. The leather whipped with crude aim at his chest, Corneul more intent on venting his anger than accuracy.

Aramis caught Pierre straining against Gilles’ hold and somehow knew the wet eyes were more frustration than any pain on the boy’s part.

He couldn’t evade the strikes, held as fast as he was, but on the positive he sagged to rest his muscles and let his captors take his weight. He’d hardly planned this intervention, although on seeing the belt he had hoped to get away with welts, but the lashes kept landing at an uneven pace. This unrestrained, the end of the thin leather caught him painfully under the arms and chin the tip biting deep several times.

The belt undid much of the father and son’s diligent work relieving the injuries from his misadventure with the lieutenant’s horse. The leather ripped open jagged cuts and the force behind it opened new wounds rather quickly. His head hung low enough that he could see the blood creeping towards his smalls. No matter, the fabric was matted with dirt and all manner of filth, they were well past saving despite his soak in the rain.

Once again his mind lagged behind his body and he found himself fallen to his knees before he ever felt the men flanking him let go on Corneul’s order.

“Bourdin will escort you to the garrison, Claude. You may recover your payment; your services are no longer required in this matter.” He turned on the boy still moving against Gilles’ hands. “Pierre, you will report to Lorraine. When you are not on duty in the kitchens you are confined to quarters.”

That was the final soldiers name, now if he could just remember why they were important.

“I will take Pierre home.”

“Dr. Corbeau, do you forget our terms?”

Aramis had no reference point for their exchange, but he certainly participated in enough silent interactions to recognize a wordless conversation. The doctor and the officer became the center of the small camp’s focus despite their silence. It was Claude who broke the stillness.

“If you are delivering him to Fournier that is a significant distance, I do recommend you…”

“Your part in this is ended, you three will pack the camp and make for Foix after breakfast.”

Gilles moved off with Pierre presumably to start cooking.

From where he lay panting, no, harshly breathing. From where he was left, he saw Claude begin to approach whether for the tent itself or Aramis he could not be certain.

“Leave him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a bit of a luddite with a modern twist? I don't have much in the way of social media but I realized (I could be wrong) there's no messaging feature on Ao3 so feel free to chat me at cloudnoir8 at gmail dot com.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED  
> Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Pain, thou art not an evil…”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Everything hurt. Even his scalp tingled as his hair caught the early morning breeze and zings of pain woke along his follicles. His pains radiated from the top of his scalp through to the bottoms of his feet, the skin of his right foot still raw from its abuse. He’d collapsed from his knees to the ground before Corbeau began heading back to the tent. Aramis did not even bother moving, or speaking, as “packing the camp” had potential for more devastating consequences for him. If they were splitting this motley formed party he was either in worsened danger or infinitely better circumstances. Either option forward meant Aramis should snatch any version of rest possible.

If Corbeau, Pierre and Boucher were headed back to Foix and the camp was to be packed that meant Corneul was either taking him to Toulouse to face his captain or elsewhere to exact further vengeance. Prisoners often had a tough time of it with the soldiers transporting them and this was generally accepted as going rougher for them depending on the circumstances of their capture. In Aramis’ case, he was reasonably certain he didn’t kill Correau, the soldiers seemed to feel he had murdered their friend. He wondered at the evidence of it, had Correau said something before he died to indicate Aramis? Did any of them witness it? Nothing much in the way of details had been shared with him, when Corneul did address him it was generally to persist in his dehumanization or accusations. Hardly enlightening.

He was only surprised by the harsh kick to his bleeding stomach when it happened, not at all that the officer had chosen to do so when he stepped over Aramis in making for the tent.

When he finally uncurled himself, he left his chained arms inwards to guard his vulnerable belly and tried to massage some of the pain away. He palpated at the skin the growing ache radiating through his abdomen to throb just above the line of his braies.

His fingers slid through the blood still leaking from the open cuts. Aramis cringed at growing potential for infection and was glad some of them had been seen to last night – at least his bolt wound and injured rib were upturned rather than on the ground. He focused and refocused on a blade of grass brushing the tip of his nose – there was poetry in that, under other circumstances than these he was sure of it. He tried to center his thoughts enough to take in the conversation within the tent behind him.

“What…to accomplish with this?” That was Dr. Corbeau.

“…take the villain to Toulouse… tried to run…sure of it… and Captain…questions before he’s executed…better I uncover the information for...”

“…why you need…take him there.”

“Just give me what I’ve asked for Doctor!”

The man really had no patience, very prone to yell, Aramis felt. Then again, Treville was quick to yells before discourse as well. The Captain was much more dignified about his yelling though and Aramis had collected much empirical evidence to make the comparison. He wondered what Corneul needed from the physician.

“At least…”

“As I said, your services are no longer required, we’ll be taking him on to Toulouse from here. I will send instructions for you when I deliver him to Fournier.” Aramis tensed bracing for a kick to his unprotected spine at the officer’s exit. He contemplated rolling to his back but there really was no part of him unharmed presently and he expected more to come so it did not seem to matter beyond protecting vital organs.

In a small miracle Corneul stalked at an angle to him towards the firepit and breakfast blessedly neglecting his prisoner. Corbeau followed more sedately, also ignoring Aramis.

The sun was significantly higher in the sky as the dawn gave way to a slightly breezy early morning, but Aramis was no warmer for the sun’s rising. He shivered on the ground where he’d been left, but without being privy to the plans he thought it best to snatch any rest off his wounded leg while he could. To say he hurt everywhere was a poor representation of the sum of injuries.

Corbeau blocked out the sun when he crouched before him holding a bowl. He held it out saying nothing.

Aramis struggled upright and tried catch his eye. “Claude.”

“Take it.”

Having managed to sit up he braced his restrained arms across his knees. He took the bowl into his hands and stared at the physician waiting for some acknowledgment. None came. Claude got up and moved behind him, presumably to break down the tent.

Aramis figured he should consume the few swallows of thin broth. There was no guarantee he would be given anything to eat for the rest of the day. The taste was terrible and there was nothing to the soup except liquid. His abraded throat burned on the outside as the skin shifted with his swallows. The meager meal and injuries so far this morning did not portend a comfortable afternoon.

Boucher and Bourdin moved before him to begin breaking down the other two tents and packing the camp. He saw Pierre with Gilles by the fire and clearing the remnants of meal preparation. The “False Porthos” crowded to the boy shadowing the small frame and Aramis suspected Pierre was under strict restriction from any interaction with him. There was nothing to be done for it now and Aramis wished beyond Pierre denying his aid he should have insisted he find the knife. He should have known it was more likely to have slipped free during his escape than lost off the boy’s belt in the woods.

Pierre was further away now, saddling the horses, as Gilles move toward him. He tensed in an attempt to discern an upcoming attack, but merely offered no resistance when the large man took his bowl.

“Get up.”

He didn’t necessarily mean to resist that direction, but it was damnably difficult to get to his feet. He wobbled a bit to get balanced and managed just in time for the gruff solider to demand he move for the horses.

It was a slow progression, Aramis deliberately coddling his leg to test the muscle strength against the stitches from the bolt wound. Fortunately the positioning of the wound along his rib allowed him to monitor it more closely, and he was fairly certain that none of the bleeding trails along his abdomen originated from it. The leg seemed to hold, but his muscles’ movement strained the thread with every step.

Pierre looked up at their approach, clearly wanting to say something but Aramis’ minder halted him.

“Go help the others with the packing.”

Aramis credited the order with the prevention of his tiny advocate from bringing further trouble to himself. He tracked the boy’s movement across to the folded tents and supply piles. His distraction made it easy for Gilles to snag the back of Aramis’ makeshift collar. He was yanked towards the back of one of their mounts, likely the lieutenant’s as he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in revenging himself on Aramis.

Gilles forced a rope through the front of the “collar” as a lead, “Lieutenant wants you secured to his horse.” Aramis was not surprised. “And mine.”

Now that came as a slight surprise, but Aramis was more dismayed at the second length of rope being pushed through the leather and buckle secured at the nape of his neck. Lovely. He doubted he’d be traveling comfortably, but the push-pull between the horses while struggling with his injuries assured more would be occurring.

He soothed himself with the knowledge of their end destination. Just wait until they reached Fournier in Toulouse. He would not be able to aid much in solving the soldier’s murder, but he’d certainly solicit Captain Fournier on his own behalf of the gross mistreatment of a Musketeer at the hand’s of his regiment.

And Treville! Just wait until his Captain was informed. Aramis would encourage vein throbbing yelling; he fully supported his Captain’s ire when turned loose on a deserving party. The full-scale wrath that would be unleashed may not have a precedent due not just to the ill treatment of one of his own Musketeers but inclusive of the impediment of a vital mission of the regiment.

“Am I not to have my clothes returned?”

“You’ll travel just as you are.”

“Surely my boots!”

Gilles was already heading back to camp with a horse to attach to the cart the others were loading with their packed supplies.

He’d help Treville with expletives in as many languages as he spoke.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

He didn’t know many curses in Gascon. He’d learned a few of them now that d’Artagnan was part of their number. Several times the younger Gascon had translated for them. Aramis found it a diverting pastime to recall words and match them to usage in memories of receptions in the Captain’s office with the newfound translations.

This was untenable. He marked it as at least noon by the sun’s positioning and the burning against his skin, the elegant hats were for more than just distinction after all.

His feet must have shredded off at least the top layer of skin at this point, his steps leaving blood as they dragged over the grass. Not even his boots! Corneul had not addressed him all morning, but he’d also not kept an unattainable pace – for now.

The most troubling problem the sun’s positioning marked out for him was that they were not heading towards Toulouse. No matter what route the took they would track northbound eventually. Aramis was admittedly more mentally foggy today than yesterday but he was certain no amount of confusion would have the sun moved to a new daily path overnight.

Aramis grew more certain they were not heading for the city as the sun grew lower. While he knew they were not going to Toulouse, he assumed the men must as well but was not sure they supported the decision. These men had initially objected to keeping him in camp instead of bringing him to Foix, perhaps that could serve his purposes instead.

“I was under the impression we were making for Toulouse.”

No response.

“I believe you mistake the way.”

The leather pulled tight across his throat as Gilles slowed his horse’s pace. No response from Corneul.

“I said I think…”

“Stop that barking!”

_How original._

Gilles must have halted the horse because Aramis pitched forward in the next moment with both sides of the wretched collar straining. He was secured twice over to Corneul’s horse by the rope through the collar and another directly around his neck. He was sure it wouldn’t do for them to tear the collar apart themselves with the tension, the second rope serving to shred Aramis’ neck rather than the leather.

“Sir,” this was Bourdin. “Maybe give him back the boots? We are moving slow, wherever we are making for.”

Corneul glared back but called a halt nonetheless. “No. We will break here to give ourselves a respite. Gilles see it relieves itself, Bourdin with me.”

Gilles dismounted with the lead from his horse in hand and moved past Aramis to take hold of Corneul’s so he wouldn’t need to detach the multiple ropes affixing him. Gilles led him and the horse further towards a cluster of shrubs. “Make it quick.”

Gilles then ignored him as he fiddled with ensuring the ropes attached to the lieutenant’s horse were secure. He was grateful that the irons at least allowed his hands to reach his smalls himself and, like feeding himself this morning, he wasted no time taking advantage of the miniscule liberty.

Once finished he took a further chance, insisting to the soldier, “Whatever you think of me and believe should be my fate surely you know that it must be decided at Toulouse, not by a vigilante officer in the countryside!”

He had not expected a response, so he was not disappointed much when none came.

As they headed further afield, not a road or pathway in sight, he wondered if his brothers would be able to follow a bloody trail to his rescue? He wryly mused his thoughts both irrational and dramatic but the thought of his brothers searching provided something to cling to. Besides his body didn’t have enough blood to leave such a trail.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Boucher directed the cart as they made their way through the city streets with his father keeping their own mount paced beside it. They were making for the Chateau, his father would see him installed there and he hoped that he might stay for a few days rather than returning to their home outside the city. Before he could worry about his confinement with Lorraine, he saw the Golden Basket and the stable coming up on their right. As they passed, he saw the long blue sash was draped out of one of the saddle bags and a lanky man was rifling through them before attempting to calm the horse. He was not surprised, she was “spirited, like the best of women,” Aramis had said.

Surely that was d’Artagnan based on Aramis’ description of the three: Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan, “the very highest of men and brothers.” Aramis said he remined him of Athos, noble and brave. Pierre didn’t feel very noble or brave leaving his musketeer friend behind. He felt better seeing d’Artagnan had located Aramis’ horse, they were looking for him just like Aramis said they would be. He craned backwards over the horse’s rump, wishing he could tell d’Artagnan to make for Toulouse to defend his brother.

“Pierre!”

His father had been in a black mood since they left camp and he did not seem pleased to have Pierre wriggling behind him. Pierre snapped forward; his heart bolstered that the Musketeers were in Foix. If they were anywhere near as resolute as Aramis to their mission they would find their brother!

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos and d’Artagnan eyed the stall and Aramis’ mare from the side of the stables.

“Right, you go search the bags. I’ll try to find a stable hand.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re still frightened of her, Porthos!”

“Of course not, she just gets on better with you.” Porthos folded his arms leaning away firm in his insistence. “She does.”

D’Artagnan elbowed him protesting, “She likes you! She barely even snaps at you now.”

“No. She likes my horse.” And thank goodness for that. Porthos would swear her affection for his gelding was the only thing that saved him a munched boot when riding alongside Aramis. Him being atop a horse her highness liked meant she behaved. “She’s smitten with him, not me.”

His brother huffed in bemused disbelief but made for the mare regardless. D’Artagnan began rifling through the saddlebags but spoke in greeting and she whickered back in recognition. Porthos just eyed them awaiting her initial calm to give way to the demoness that lurked underneath.

Fortunately the stable hand found them before Porthos had to move closer. “Need ‘elp?”

“Yeah. We’re friends of Lazare and we’re looking for him. We’re later into town than planned, have you seen him?”

“Can’t say I have. Man hasn’t been around fer her lately. Odd if y’ask me, he’s been here several times a day fussing with her. Comes all hours of the day digging through his saddle bags, spoiling her, treats ‘er like right royalty he does.” He nodded at Aramis’ girl.

Porthos spared a glance over at her highness, the stablemaster didn’t know the half of the matter! “Royalty” indeed. Not odd if you asked Porthos, Aramis spoiled the harpy something awful. Not keeping their agreed schedule was odd though, and more likely dangerous.

“Something like that, yeah. We need to find him. When was he here last?”  


“Haven’t seen him since Correau was trailing him the other night. He’d been asking after yer friend.”

D’Artagnan moved closer. “And this soldier, Correau, do you recall when he first asked after Ar…um, Lazare?”

“Mmm, ‘bout four or five days ago now? Correau was real clear he didn’t want me telling ‘im though. Said ‘e wasn’t a criminal, but it was a matter for the garrison. Caught him eyeing Lazare a few times when he dropped by for the princess ‘ere. Yer friend workin’ with the Musketeers then?” The stable hand was eyeing their pauldrons.

“When’d you last see Lazare?” Porthos was eager to set out searching, but since they decided to approach this as the King’s men they needed as much reconnaissance as possible on what happened to Aramis before his missing the meeting with Athos.

“Just after midnight? Day and a half ago now, suppose.”

Athos assured them Aramis had changed the signal for the midnight deadline as the afternoon’s had only been the all clear indicator. He’d found something. He might still be in Foix, but his success just prior to his vanishing likely indicated discovery and that still meant he could have been taken a significant distance out of the city by now.  



	11. Chapter 11

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“You who weep for pleasures fled…”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_"So, drape it left-side near towards the head if we need to meet?” d'Artagnan had asked as they chose the direction for each indication._

_“Meeting of the minds, yes?” Aramis teased. Athos huffed over his cup._

_“Nope, towards the tail,” Porthos asserted. “‘Cause if we need to meet…it means we're in shit."_

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Athos observed the cart rattling into the Chateau’s courtyard. He’d been making enquiries all afternoon, trying to subtly glean news. Since Fournier was away from the garrison he was contemplating higher risks and outright stating a musketeer had gone missing.

It was growing late and he positioned himself to watch for Porthos and d’Artagnan. It was not their first time to this post, if they had no leads by tonight, they would quarter here to regroup and plan their next movements. He willed Porthos and d’Artagnan to retrieve Aramis’ mare faster.

He paid idle attention as stableboys moved to secure and unload the cart. Between the garrison and the prison the Chateau was bustling with activity at a continuous pace. One boy remained with the man he’d been riding with once they’d dismounted. Athos could make out an argument from their tense postures. As they moved around the cart, he eavesdropped due to their location more than any real interest.

“We have to do something, Papa! Report it to Lieutenant de Guise!” The child’s voice cracked high with the desperation of a drawn-out argument. Whatever they argued over it was not the first time.

“I am not a soldier Pierre. The machinations of others are not my affair. My trade is the healing arts not soldiering!” The man regretted his frustration, it seemed, and lowered his voice – bending to the boy, “I heal soldiers, Pierre, I am not one of them. I heal mothers, and fathers, and children.”

“Except Maman.”

That ended their discussion. The man kept rigid in his leant over posture, while the boy kept his head down and turned away.

The lack of focus accounted for his slamming into Athos moments later. In the time it took for the collision to happen the man was gone from sight, leaving Athos no means to foist the boy off on another adult to deal with.

The teary-eyed gaze swam upward in shock at their colliding, well his colliding. Athos had been stood still. He waited with stoic patience for the boy to apologize or at least make his excuses. Instead the child’s lips pulled in, Athos prayed not to signify a forthcoming torrent, before his gaze slid to Athos’ pauldron and his entire mouth fell open.

It was one of the most surreal standoffs of Athos’ military career.

“Athos!” The boy pushed out in an explosion of breath. The overwhelmed eyes leaked over; their yield unheeded by the boy as he was practically shaking with something Athos could not begin to speculate. How in the world did this strange creature know that? “You’re Athos!” The boy clung to his arm trying to pull either the pauldron or the man himself closer to inspect. “You must be him! Aramis said…”

“Aramis?” He shook his arm free from the tugging and grabbed the boy roughly, clutching his shoulders with both hands. “How do you know that name!”

“He needs help! The Lieutenant thinks he murdered Correau! But he didn’t. I know he didn’t! Musketeers are the noblest soldiers in France! But Corneul doesn’t think he is… and he hurt him, the picket, I tried to help but it was raining and hard to see and I lost my knife and, and he cut him and dragged him and beat him and…” The boy paused for a sharp breath which seemed to force the more urgent message he needed to convey, “He wants to kill Aramis! He’s taking him to be executed, you have to help!”

“Calm down!” Athos gave some ground and knelt to his level. He’d tried to pick through everything disclosed to him in his disbelief. His heart stuttered on “executed” and he held himself checked from shaking the boy as it wouldn’t expedite getting the details he most needed.

“Athos!” His head snapped behind the boy to see Porthos and d’Atagnan riding in. The stableboys converged to take their horses, all three of the horses. Good. At least that was sorted. Now to untangle the rest, which may - unbelievably - prove easier with this uncanny new lead. If the boy would stop wriggling!

Pierre? That’s what the man had called him earlier. Pierre struggled against Athos’ hold, straining towards the new arrivals. “Porthos! Is d’Artagnan with you?” If he hadn’t met Aramis directly then he certainly knew someone who had, there was no way a child recognized them all. Even if they boy had overheard their names or seen them on an earlier visit, they’d not been here since d’Artagnan’s arrival in Paris.

Porthos having no knowledge of the crucial interrogation Athos was about to undertake was amused by the small person asking questions. “Yeah.” He nodded and drew close, stopping to tower over the boy. “Who wants to know?” Porthos grinned in a friendly menace only he was capable of.

“Where is d’Artagnan? Didn’t he come too?”

Having finished with turning over their mounts once Porthos moved away, the youngest of the inseparable men came over and looked perplexed at the question. “I’m d’Artagnan.” Confusion and amusement swung over his features before he finally raised an eyebrow at Pierre.

The boy was looking at him and the four – the wrong four – stood confused together before Athos finally did shake him. Gently.

“Did Aramis tell you our names?” His insistence caught and held the boy’s eyes. He kept his voice as level as he was able given the frantic spilling of his thoughts as they tripped behind his own eyes. “Have you met him?”

“Wait! You’ve seen Aramis?” Porthos grabbed the boy and dropped to drag the boy towards himself. Athos nearly screamed in frustration.

“Yes! He swore to me he was telling the truth! He promised! Athos, Porthos and d’Artangan were all the King’s Musketeers and they’d be looking for him! I knew it was true! I knew it!” Before one of them could interrupt the excited child he asked, “But…if you’re d’Artagnan then who was looking through Aramis’ bags earlier?”

The three Musketeers looked between themselves. At least they wouldn’t need to violently question witnesses, but this was going to require more finesse than any of them really felt up to enduring.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The sun was nearly sunk, but Aramis no longer cared its positioning, their location, or their destination. He was struggling to keep his feet and inordinately grateful to “False Porthos” for insisting he be returned his boots. That it was slowing them down significantly towards wherever Corneul was taking them was the only reason he’d likely given in. Aramis didn’t care the reason any more since Corneul’s horse wasn’t one to stop when defecating and it was Aramis’ bare feet that would have dragged through otherwise. Most of the manure had worn off the leather as they kept marching through the undergrowth, but he shuddered to think of the infection such filth would’ve meant for his bare feet if the boots had not been returned.

His boots were the only thing returned to him, not even his stockings to cushion them! Sunburnt, stitched up, his clothing stained and significant portions of skin bleeding, he felt a ruin of his usually well-kept self.

He stumbled over a rock, grateful that being stuck between two horses meant there were no trees for him to hit. Their girth gave a clear path for his upper body, at least, if he stayed relatively in line with the ass before him. Both of them!

He glared at the officer’s back. Willing them to stop soon, he really didn’t want to be dragged behind a horse again. In the dark. He’d not survive it. Then again, the leads locking his collar between the two horses would likely strangle him first. No matter the cause the end results would not be favorable to Aramis.

“Halt! We’ll make camp here.”

_In the middle of who knew where in the woods of France? Perfect._

They dismounted around him and moved off to prep the clearing. Aramis was so exhausted he didn’t bother contemplating escape. He’d need at least the first part of the evening to muster his body towards undertaking it and his mind to sort the possibilities and formulate a plan.

Bourdin untethered him from the horses and led him to a tree. How original. If Aramis wanted to be fair then he’d acknowledge this was the preferable option to remaining secure to an equine companion. He wasn’t feeling generous. Or rational.

He gave token defiance to the soldier as he stumbled towards the thick trunk, but stopped soon as he realized it cost him more than it benefited. Instead he stood tense as his back was pushed to the tree and his neck forced tight against it. He was to be left standing for however long they would leave him here. Bourdin wrapped the rope several times over the leather collar and secured to the opposite side. Once his prisoner was relatively secure, he moved to interweave rope at the bend in Aramis’ arms to further tether him to the trunk. The rope pulling tight and the width of the tree once more dug the chain into his stomach. This ignited the pain from the kick delivered to his abdomen that morning. Aramis had monitored his heavily abused torso over the course of their travels and blood was pooling under the surface there bruising deeply from the boot’s impact.

At least the boots afforded some measure of protection to brace his weight in his struggle to remain upright. And they protected him once more when Bourdin crouched to tie his ankles with a small length between them. Kicking anyone was out. Even if he could get enough leverage to raise his feet he’d have to brace on the ropes securing him to the tree and his neck was so tightly lashed against it he was struggling to breathe just standing.

The sun was low enough that the trees obscured the direction of the fading light and Aramis was still having difficulty ordering his thoughts. Pain, blood loss, dehydration, certainly a concussion, exhaustion and numerous other ails all bolstered his confusion. He settled in to wait for the engagement he knew would come and just let his thoughts drift.

When it came, it was all three men. _Was he such a threat trussed to a tree?_

Although he supposed the other two soldiers wanted answer for their fellow’s murder as well as why their lieutenant had diverted them from Toulouse. Or were they now supporting it? Aramis was tired of this. If they would just take him to the city he would prove his innocence. Fournier knew him! He was certain of that. His mind cleared enough to recall his various interactions with the other captain, Treville had proudly introduced him to Fournier for goodness sake!

“Now, you insufferable mutt. I want answers.” At least they were in familiar territory again, all Aramis needed to do was hasten the man along to getting him to Toulouse. They’d see which soldier would face Fournier’s fury then. “You’ll account for your actions in Foix and answer for murdering Correau.”

“I won’t.” Aramis dug his heels in literally. He’d nothing to say this man would believe and they were wasting time. “Any testimony I give will be given directly to your captain or the magistrate in Toulouse.”

“I told you already. I am master here. We go where I say and when I order it.”

Aramis said nothing, just tilted his head to the tree and peered down his nose at the man defying his expectations that Aramis would disclose on his order.

“Nothing to say?” Aramis just moved his gaze fixing his eyes on the horses tethered across the clearing. He could empathize, but they were even freer than he.

“Sir, the bastard’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Gilles is right, Corneul, maybe we ought to just dump him with the Captain.”

A sound plan. Aramis was in favor. His stare remained endless towards the grazing animals despite listening intently to the men crowding him.

“No.” Something in his voice pulled Aramis’ gaze back to Corneul who smiled the grin of a man who knew who held the ace. _Or the ace, two face cards and a sometimes a spare deck in his boots_. Aramis knew the look well, but from observing a much more handsome face. “No. This mangy cur is worth far more. When we turn in our long elusive spy it’ll be to the praise of the Captain, of Toulouse, of Foix and France itself!”

 _Oh, how disappointed this man would be_. Aramis looked forward to the lieutenant’s humiliation, his demotion perhaps for how incorrect he was.

Except then he pulled the ace. The small sheaf of papers Aramis fashioned into a notebook of sorts. Coded within were the names he uncovered.

 _Would his misfortune never end?_ The irony. The very list of some of the spies plaguing them all was in the Lieutenant Corneul’s hands. The officer knew it was valuable. The difficulty was he was completely mistaken about the meaning, and he would refuse to believe Aramis about the nature of it! Which meant Aramis couldn’t even tell him the truth of what the documents were, but he was sickened to realize the very evidence he gathered to root out the spies was going to condemn him as one.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING  
> Broken Down | Broken Bones  
> Warnings: Choking

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“…a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis abraded his own throat smacking his head against the bark in an effort not to cry out. His vision had whitened completely when Corneul snapped his left pinky finger. Aramis had been steadfast in his refusal to explain the papers.

They were all coded using specific poems and prayers. He’d hoped Athos would have appreciated his inclusion of Catullus and Sappho when he saw the meticulous care he’d taken in disguising his discoveries. Perhaps he could coax a look at the writing, he remembered some of the poets and psalms he’d chosen, but not all of them, and certainly not to what each set of letters and numbers equated.

Sometime while he was musing the rope at his throat tightened to cut off his air. Corneul had threatened, shown him the branch that would be threaded behind him between the bark and rope. Aramis still refused to answer the questions. Gilles had moved behind to operate the mocked-up garrote.

Aramis’ vision nearly blacked out this time. His mind pounded trying to counter the change in blood flow and the pain of his struggling lungs. He wished for his brothers but knew how small the chance of them finding him in time. He knew they wouldn’t give up. He was certain they’d find him eventually. He was only uncertain that he’d be alive to meet them. He turned back to poetry to distract him from the uneven tightening and release against his throat. He let his body take over the fight and his mind to float.

Men who did not read poetry were so deprived Aramis always felt. Just as with prayer so much succor could be mined from poems, hundreds of years of mankind searching for truth through verse and metered measures.

Aramis couldn’t fault the court poet for his verse, but he never cared much for Malherbe since he did praise Richelieu. His cluttered mind stumbled over stanzas picking and discarding phrases faster than Aramis had the full sense of them in his mind. He snatched up a single verse of a lengthy poem he could not recall in total.

_“The poor man in his hut, where the thatch covers him,_

_Is subject to its laws,_

_And the guard who watches over the barriers of the Louvre_

_Cannot from death defend Kings.”_

Death equalized all men. True. And Aramis never felt closer to that neutral hunter than tonight. He left off his recollections of poetry and began to pick through his prayers. He kept searching his mind to push back the pain. Using all his knowledge of words written over the centuries in composing poems and prayers, he sought phrases meant to comfort the heart, and to fortify the soul to keep him from breaking.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT  
> Delayed Drowning

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The darkness slowed its recession to returning his sight with each turn of the branch tightening their crudely fashioned garrote. He was choking beyond what his body might support as Gilles turned the branch round then countered then turned the branch again. Aramis was slower to pull in air on each release of the weapon’s grip. Corneul must have realized as his head pitched forwards out of his own control when the branch and rope were tugged free.

“And will you tell us the meaning of these letters now?”

Aramis didn’t have the breath to ask if he meant the papers as letters themselves or the letters on the page. It would be a waste. He would tell the man nothing regardless.

“Very well, let’s see if some water might ease your throat and loosen your tongue.” He eyed his men and pointed to the distance beyond Aramis’ vision. In all his attempts to divert his thoughts he’d not taken note of the sounds of a nearby stream. “Bring him!”

In keeping with events of late Aramis very much doubted they were going to allow him a cool drink. He didn’t bother resisting the soldiers relocating him and he began to doubt his resolve to keep resisting entirely.

When he was tipped beneath the surface, he was heartened to realize he still had fight within. He bucked against the soldiers’ weight forcing him down, dislodging an arm across his back. It was quickly replaced as the three men rattled against each other.

_Wrestling Porthos was a fool’s errand and never let it be said that Aramis did not sometimes play the fool. Charging him they twisted up in a grapple that saw them both wobble, but only Aramis wound up on the ground. Porthos kept him there at half-strength waiting to see if he should apply further pressure or twist their arms to help Aramis up. Aramis hoped it would take a moment before Porthos realized he should apply the pressure._

The water still churned nearest the grass from his struggles as he was hauled up by the saturated leather on his neck. He’d always admired Porthos his resilience, the man was the personification of the word in everything he did. Whether through quiet resistance or brute strength his brother persevered and kept on and when Aramis’ own faith in himself faltered he often thought of Porthos.

_Again? This newly commissioned man to their ranks was an insufferable villain! He’d graciously offered to spar with this Athos and the man thought to give him corrections? Aramis had hired a tutor when arriving in Paris years ago, he had been trained! He’d concede the man was skilled. He was beginning to consider he might even be equally skilled to himself. Athos had forced him back thrice in less than a minute this bout, but he’d not yield!_

He was dragged up by his hair this time, the tension of the hold the only resistance to his plummet back to the rippling water. He eyed the water’s calming surface and thought of all the times Athos had advised him over the years, Aramis sought him as sounding board and confessor in equal measure. His mouth went slack, breaths were hissing with the intake of the water dripping from his moustache. He wasn’t sure when the grip released or how long he was beneath the surface.

_As he floated weightless in the noiseless water, he felt the phantom reverberation of the combination of their swords bearing d’Artagnan’s down to rough wood. It was only after Athos was well-clear of his sentence that Aramis recalled d’Artagnan’s reckless charge with laughter at his brazen attack. He’d be the worst hypocrite if he didn’t reserve special admiration for irresponsible decisions influenced by passion. It had been dangerous. An exemplar of d’Artagnan’s impetuousness, but also to his heart-born courage._

Air forced slowly in and he wheezed it out, he’d focused exclusively on repeating the action when he was finally dropped to the grass. They were shallow breaths, but his body was still sustaining the motions.

He could not yield here. He would see his brothers again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING?  
> Branding | Fire  
> *caution warning for possible triggery below the belt moment, there is not an assault, but stop reading at “this one demanded his attention” and what you don’t read will be referenced in Ch. 15/future so you won’t miss anything by skipping.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“…the merit of all things lies in their difficulty.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

There is a special torment that comes from being thrust into water when you are dehydrated. Aramis knew it had been done to scare him into exchanging information for air. Instead he’d been held underwater in temptation and forced to resist trading breaths for a sip.

His lungs were still pushing air in and out. The coordinated efforts of his body were keeping him conscious though he wished for the rest that came with the loss of it. His captors seemed to feel ramping their efforts would force him to explain his writings. He had told them nothing in days and under worse conditions. Had he begged? Had he revealed anything?

Aramis wondered at the woodland torture. His mind was still foggy, but he gave them credit for a make-shift garrote. Near drowning in a stream was naturally provided so they hadn’t needed to construct anything. He hoped they wouldn’t use the woods to fashion more weapons, his addled intellect flashed images of a carved scold’s bridle or a deconstructed version of a rack through his thoughts. He would not yield, but a man’s mortal body did have limitations.

Shivering, his body was at least trying to warm him from his dunking.

“Bring him back to the fire!”

_Oh, that might be helpful._

Except he knew it would not be. He already knew nothing was done with the intent to help him. Nothing without the price of his own pain. They weren’t bringing him to dry off from the stream. Still, he took the small pleasure he could from the wafting heat.

“You’ve scratched your wounds open, dog.”

He decided he wouldn’t growl, but if one of them got close enough he was damn well biting.

The stitches certainly felt like they’d ripped. All his chest hurt from the lash wounds and cuts and tears he’d accumulated, but his skin stung where he knew the deep cut along his rib was located. It was the skin testing tug of stitches straining to hold together where others have released and the tension burned. Pity the doctor wasn’t with them. The man’s stitching had been flawless, Aramis naively hoped all those hours and hours ago that he might not even scar along the rib. Now he worried one or more of his injuries would kill him outright. He just needed to last long enough to get to Toulouse. He could still get to Fournier and tell him all he’d found. Corneul had his documents and once Aramis had them again – and his mind cleared up and he ate something – he could tell both captains what it all meant. He would remember what it all meant by then too, surely his head would clear with actual rest.

He was kicked onto his right side, a hand through the collar and dug into the hair at the back of his head. His plans to bite waylaid. He followed Corneul moving above him, but out of range of anything he might consider. Before he could kick out, hands had the rope between his ankles and a man’s full weight bore down on his legs. He was immobilized facing the firepit. At least the heat would dry him, and warm him, his underclothes while functional were not made to be a man’s sole clothing out of doors.

Corneul leaned down to the fire to pull a blade free.

“I won’t waste the thread, but let’s see if we can’t fix them up.”

He’d done this himself to others, had this done to him unfortunately, he was intimately familiar with the process. The difference being that Aramis would only do this to a man when the wound and circumstances absolutely necessitated it. He would endure, his leg had not been near the water and his smalls still felt soaked at his thigh. The throbbing wound was likely bleeding freely through the pulled stitching. At least Corneul heated a blade and not wood, maybe there was a chance it would not cause him infection on top of agony.

Aramis tried to focus on the fact that the blood leaking from his thigh needed to be staunched. This logic would not allay the pain, but he had little else to cling to as the heat coming off the steel hovered close enough to agitate the hair along his thigh. The lieutenant said nothing before pushing the flat edge to the ruptured stitching. The stench of seared flesh choked Aramis’ aborted scream. For the first time in days he was grateful for the lack of meals and clamped his jaw. Despite there being nothing to bring up the smoke cloyed with the heavy smell of cooking meat.

The blade was pressed overlong and well past the time required to cauterize. He was held fast to the ground and curved inward like a branch weighted by ice. The cold would be a balm to him. The burning blade nearly tricked him to believing it was cold it as it was so glaringly hot his nerves felt incomprehensively chilled before the unceasing sear crisped into his flesh. His mind pitched between the origin of his agony and the unnatural scent pressing in. His throat went unchecked and as his breathy wheezing pitched higher not even the jerking of his collar stifled it.

Just as he feared, however illogical, the muscle melting to give way to his bone the unyielding metal was lifted off. Lost to pain he could not focus. Aramis pressed his face further to the ground panting against the earth in uneven huffs he just managed to keep from being accented with cries. He would not allow the man the gratification of whimpering and trembling on the ground like the beaten dog he wished to cast him as.

He’d hoped to lose consciousness, often the case with these proceedings, but his body was nearly as stubborn as his pride this evening. Instead he was pulled further to awareness as they unfurled his limbs to stretch him tightly by his bonds. His arms were tugged up by the shackles and his head tilted by the collar the skin over his cut up rib was taut for the officer’s attention. Aramis caught sight of him, back turned to his preparations, the blade had been returned to heat. He bit down another yell when the weight on his ankles shifted and pulled at his charred skin.

Almost immediately he was distracted by the lancing, cold heat on his chest. The flat of the knife held firmly to his side renewed his fear of the blade sinking to bone, the skin was much thinner over the ribs. It was his panic that caused a distracted yelp to escape when the edge turned and cut next to the burned flesh.

A considering sound left Corneul.

At some unseen signal the men holding him turned him to his back in a coordinated effort without slackening their grip to any of his bonds. With his severed stitches newly secured Corneul seemed to realize there were other uses for a heated blade.

Aramis ignored the men crowding him in favor of the branches framing the stars. He’d pick a point of light to focus on momentarily, but first he tried to will memories of his brothers to the forefront buy it required more effort than his mind was capable. Interesting how they came unwilled but not unwelcome, but it seemed he could not recall them on command.

The trick of cold came again before he could fix his eyes to a star. There wasn’t all that much pressure being applied, but the heat negated the need and parted flesh over his ribs unresisted. Was death possible by such shallow cuts? Aramis knew well the cumulative effect of tiny wounds untreated.

Perhaps a shooting star? That would be something.

He refused to look down or around him. A futile hope that the officer would grow tired of this line of questioning. He ignored those too. Each drag of the blade scorched along to the pace of the man’s drawn out questions. All his questions went unanswered. The man alternated it seemed, as Aramis would not watch, between cutting unmarked flesh and allowing the heat to melt open the scabs already set into his chest.

His will burned through him in a match to the blighted flesh. He would tell them nothing. He would tell Fournier everything.

The quick flicker of his eyes downward presented the illusion of a shooting star. Any astronomical musing he might have made was scattered before the cause of his newest distraction. He prayed without words that the man would not turn the blade into his vulnerable lower abdomen. The drag threatened, the heated steel slanting, and no amount of muscle protected a man’s sensitive belly.

Picking out a speck of sky was hindered. He tried to keep locked on one of the many stars, but the knife’s heated point kept tracing along. It was a scratch like the anticipation of a lover’s nails, even if they brought a bit of pain, but he drew the line at drawing blood. There was no pleasure to channel from memory, all his trysts were beyond his recognizing through the slicing torment. Questions peppered into his mind – chasing any lover’s whisper he tried to recall – only a growled interrogation over his head. A hint, a drag, a cut, then the cooling flat of the blade moved to desensitize him from anticipating the next attack.

A branch cut across the star he guarded and he mused on when he might return the hospitality shown him. He would not carry out his own revenge, that would be petty, but his brothers enacting vengeance for his ill care was acceptable. Well, he’d more than fulfilled ‘all for one’ let them unite in one purpose to avenge him through ‘one for all’ as it were. Aramis was mildly certain Fournier and Treville would not need any convincing to look the other way in these circumstances.

The simmering hatred he understood, the man thought him an enemy to their country and the slayer of his friend. Yet there was an intimacy to this torture that his theatrics with Porthos skirted, they evoked the threat, but rarely would they carry out true harm. They hinted, they performed, it was an art! This barrage against his humanity was something else entirely. The longer he was in their company the more he feared he might not outlive their ambitious methods.

He thought he might ponder an accounting of all the recommendations he’d give his brothers. They could warm up, test some things on the soldiers, before Corneul. Another slice, closer to his side, tempted his gaze but he knew Corneul wouldn’t cut too deeply. He couldn’t risk his prize bleeding out before he dragged him to parade through Toulouse.

A hand to his forehead and a forearm blocked Aramis’ piece of sky. He was reminded of another field and another hand across his brow. His Captain had been close by when he’d fallen, assuring him the rest of the regiment was near. That voice had told him to be easy and that all would be well, this one demanded his attention.

Aramis was anticipating the man’s other hand displaying the blade to him which was precisely why he was unprepared for it to slip below his braies.

“Still nothing to tell us?”

The hand on his forehead moved, he next registered it as it slid to his hip. The hand with the blade moved lower the skin-to-skin contact lingering in counter to all their prior holds and hits. 

Aramis went rigid. His miniscule trembling due purely to the overtaxed muscles.

The blade slid lower, not cutting, the edge turning with barely any pressure. An implicit threat.

“Tell me what those papers entail, or I’ll see you neutered.”

Fortunately, the metal was cooling, there was no risk of further burns, but the blade was sharp. Aramis kept his pelvis still as he wrestled upwards. The collar choked the last of his air from him and he could not tell the depth of cut made before he passed out. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN  
> Possession *prompt changed slightly from the supernatural aspect to fit.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“What fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis no longer attempted to discern where in countryside they were, only that the sun marked progression of the hours and the darkness would signal they would stop. They were heading elsewhere today, just the three of them. Bourdin had been sent on to Toulouse to inform Fournier of their prisoner that morning. Aramis tried to assure himself that his ravaged body only needed to bear him a few more hours, days at most, before they finally delivered him. He was less sure that his mind would endure long enough to arrive there.

He and his brothers, he would have thought them men to never truly torture their own prisoners though temptation was always there and theatrics were always employed when needed. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man who threatened a brother’s life. He did not think he would employ drastic means to coerce a confession that could be gotten through the regular channels of justice. Then again, one never knew what one would do until confronted with the exact situation and all the variables. Aramis never trusted anyone that swore they would act a certain way in a circumstance unknowable to them. Men were not always righteous; they were not always kind and they would not know their own limits until they were often pushed beyond them.

The three of them plodded along. He plodded, they rode.

The worn fabric on his legs did little to keep them warm or protected. When he stumbled the cloth often tugged wounds open from the fibers that had dried to the skin. The wounds were mainly open cuts, most having closed when he lay passed out overnight. His thigh bore a seared bandage, but it was his newest cut that was most disconcerting. He shifted his legs continually to try to find a gait that would not aggravate it. In the morning when he was allowed the privilege of relieving himself he had tried to probe the severity of it, but touch alone would only reveal so much. And Gilles had already been tugging him to the horses, so he chose tying the smalls over trying to view the damage.

He’d woken in a panic that morning, nearly knocking himself out again, since the rope was secured to the tree and they’d tied him to it with minimal give. His arms were too tight to be of use examining the wound, and the rope so short to the tree he couldn’t contort enough to reach, so he went by sense and sight. Not nearly enough blood for the threat of castration to have been carried out and even Corneul knew the resultant blood loss or infection would wreck his chances of obtaining the information. It was relief that nearly undid his consciousness that time as he could tell everything was where it was normally, but he ached fiercely. When he was recovered, he planned to spend many nights asking his brothers to narrate back their vengeance and he would relish every detail.

He was Corneul’s prisoner and to the man he was his dog, his possession, his means for protecting their country, nothing more.

The three soldiers had spoken around him as though he were another horse or part of the landscape that morning. Bourdin would inform Fournier that they had irrefutable proof of their prisoner’s covert activities in Foix. Corneul had instructed Bourdin to explain that Correau had been monitoring possible spies when he’d found Lazare meeting with the suspected individuals regularly.

Aramis had conversed with so many targets as Lazare he could not remember if Correau had snuck into his meeting points somehow. His memory was flashes, like trying to concentrate on reading with fading light and overindulgence in wine the faces, like the words, were blurred impressions. He tried to focus on his last night in Foix, but the images would not come forward. He’d spent days coding the suspected men in his papers, scrawling them in candlelight in his lodgings, Lazare’s lodgings. A mix of French, Latin, Spanish and Italian, to be safe, encoded every name and observation. He’d spoken in all of them in town, perhaps Correau had overheard? Would Correau have followed Lazare into the churches? Aramis had assumed several of them exchange points initially himself, but speaking Latin to a priest was hardly duplicitous, and it was more than clear the lead was erroneous.

They’d been dragged along by leads for months trying now to ascertain the leaks of information in Foix. Treville and Fournier coordinated this latest attempt as rooting out the messaging systems and those individuals selling information. The Golden Basket’s proprietor had peaked early on Aramis’ list of contacts and Lazare paid him well to be informed. Lazare spent many a night and much coin in the man’s establishment weaving tales and pulling in possible leads. If he could just piece it together now, perhaps he could convince these remaining two to hasten to Toulouse.

Aramis was leashed only to the officer’s mount today. Gilles kept riding alongside him hastening him forward. Lieutenant Corneul had them moving at a faster pace all morning and Aramis’ ability to keep his feet was so diminished he relied on the rider next to him to keep from flailing. “False Porthos” kept his mount close enough that he moved to bolster Aramis with the horse’s flank should he begin to fall. The trade-off for such a favor was generally a boot catching his torso or back, and Aramis still wasn’t sure it was not intentional.

Despite all attempts, patient, or raging he’d not been believed. And now the ‘evidence’ of his coded documents increased their fervor to their own truth. He was a possession to be traded to superior officers and information would be gleaned by whatever means possible beforehand. They believed they’d caught a spy and would be lauded from here to the Louvre. They were not going to ease off him on their journey, undoubtedly hoping to secure the information they thought he had. They would not be bringing him before their superior officer without those answers and then it would be Toulouse for the heroic soldiers dragging in the coveted spy.

He would complete the mission and he’d even offer Fournier assistance in solving the murder – clearly his own men weren’t up to the task. He’d told them he was one of the Musketeers, surely they should have checked. Had he ever told them his name? Had anyone ever asked him? Pierre and Claude knew, but had they shared his name? He’d met none of these men before when visiting Foix, but the garrison here was much larger than the Musketeers’ own. He thought of confessing it now, but what would it matter? If they even slightly suspected truth to Aramis’ claim they would have acted on it, not been complicit in his torture and diverting him from justice.

He’d have his revenge on these men though, they were all soldiers in the same cause and their own vengeance had gone too far.

The threads of their fates were intertwined now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY  
> Forced to Beg | Hallucinations

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

They gave him broth in the mornings and water so intermittently Aramis marveled his body was still able to pass it, _accounted for the blood perhaps_. No, no that was all the punches and kicks, there were plenty of other symptoms slow starvation accounted for. He’d been given no other food since the crust of bread offered by Pierre and as far as Aramis was concerned the broth did not count. And yet it was hardly the worst of his injuries to be hungry and confused considering the ills visited upon him and probably those to come.

He was so out of it he began to interchange “False Porthos” and Porthos atop the horse throughout the day. More than once he’d found himself swinging his head to smile over at the man before realizing the villainous solider had replaced his swarthy friend. Then he frowned and imagined Porthos would tear this man from the horse if he were here and pound him most thoroughly. In the fading light he swore the man was Porthos again, but it shattered quickly with every curse or kick.

“Oi, keep your feet!”

The horse shoved hard into Aramis’ right side.

And when Porthos had this impostor off his horse, Porthos would hold him down for Aramis! He could admit he’d need the assist and he would be grateful for it. He and Porthos would meet eyes and share a great laugh together.

He nearly tumbled down the incline off the path but managed to dig his boots in time. His limbs felt connected by wearing twine, each day and every step unraveling him further.

The goal was Toulouse, if he could make it there then everything else would fall in line. He had no idea where they were anymore, they had tracked in all directions in the past few days and he was frustrated that he had not been able to keep oriented enough to mentally map out their trajectory. They could have moved in large circles, at an angle from Foix, doubled-back, or been heading straight for Toulouse in a meandering line. He'd hoped they would have let something slip when Bourdin was sent ahead to inform their captain. When nothing was said to him before they set out, Aramis just focused on keeping upright. He'd kept silent all day, no point trying to speak with these men even as their number dwindled.

"Move!" This time the kick to his shoulder was most definitely deliberate.

It rocked him sidewards and Aramis used the return momentum to carry him back towards Gilles. Corneul’s horse was close enough in front for Aramis to have decent slack. He’d only been secured by the collar today and the rope was in the man’s hands. There were quick turns and narrow enough paths that Corneul preferred – relished most likely – being able to yank his captive quickly to a new direction.

Aramis used his gained momentum and the element of surprise to leverage Gilles downward. The two soldiers must have been lulled into laxness, with Aramis’ hours of stumbling and regular mental fog, and had no worry he’d retaliate. He’d said nothing all day and hadn’t even engaged them to protest over the lack of stopping for lunch, now long past, when the two men ate rations atop their mounts.

_“You. You especially, ought to know scrapping is best sometimes.”_

Porthos meant no insult and he was correct. Aramis’ lithe frame was all lean muscle and strength, but a different center of gravity against a man of stalwart bulk and wider frame. A smart man knew to play to his own strengths and a wiser one knew how to exploit every means available to him. And getting a man down off a horse whilst restrained took some parts creativity, some parts strategy and in the current moment sheer aggravation.

Aramis fixed his heels down, having gotten a hold of the surprised soldier’s arm and rocked backwards again. The pendulum momentum his body had gained with the initial shove from the horse and his own flailing save of balance provided enough energy to get the large man off balance himself. Bracing a counterweight using his neck against the collar to pull back he got Gilles off his horse.

_“You ain’t gonna win against a bigger man on balance without some tricks.”_

Porthos had taught him numerous tricks and feints and cheats over the years. Their mock fights were very real, never with the intent to damage each other, but for the muscle memory. The familiarity of movement that would take over in a real fight. On the surface some of their matches looked vicious, but anyone looking closely saw their skill kept them from genuinely hurting each other. You were never prepared for every eventuality but having run the motions calmly – or gently pummeling your friend – meant you kept your head in a furious struggle with an enemy.

The larger man crashed in front of him and hands that grappled for the reins caught on the rope Corneul held, yanking it free of the man’s grip. Aramis used the tug on the rope to carry him forwards into “False Porthos” and swung his left boot into the man’s face, sacrificing the radiating pain to his thigh to keep his stronger right leg grounded. He barely tapped the toe down before swinging again into the man’s stomach.

_“Of course…sometimes it’s just about the violence. Damn satisfying to fight it out even if you know you won’t win. Just make sure you damage them too.”_

Aramis agreed with Porthos. He didn’t care what this cost him, he knew they could not outright kill him. Sending Bourdin to Toulouse assured that they had to deliver him there eventually. And he’d had enough today. He’d been stumbling between their horses for hours like the dog the man kept claiming him and Aramis was past all reason. Blood was trailing down his left leg from either the bolt wound or the cut at his groin or both or any number of the gashes along his leg and these men sat atop their horses like entitled nobility, the proud soldiers taunting their ensnared spy. 

To have one of them in the dirt in his place for even a few minutes would sustain him through whatever came next. Sometimes a man just needs a bit of his own power, and there was no balancing of the ledger on his suffering with this, but he would take even a mouthful of his own against their feast of misery.

Aramis dropped his full weight to the downed man’s torso. Having caught Corneul’s dismount he knew he had seconds before the man reached them and Aramis wanted the stability of being closer to the ground. He was going to make this as difficult as possible. With his knees and hands entangled with Gilles he turned when Corneul groped at his shoulder.

_“Give ‘em bit of their own back, yeah?”_

The enraged growl of the officer when he finally dragged his hand free of Aramis’ grip was a victory itself. Aramis smiled, tasting the hint of metal on his teeth. He barely felt the crack of Gilles skull colliding with him as he wrestled upwards. Corneul used only his left hand to wrench Aramis back off the downed man. Gilles spit dirt and swiped crumbled leaves from his face before looming over him. The collar pulled tighter even though Corneul still held him one-handed. An exchange took place over his head and Aramis took a long time to refocus on the forest detritus that filled his vision after they heaved him over Gilles’ saddle. 

Aramis still felt it was worth it when Gilles slammed both knees into his side when he mounted. He would not die a disgraced prisoner in the woods. Even if this whole mess claimed his life, it would end with a last gasp successfully concluding a final mission. He would reach Toulouse. If his captain or brothers made it to the city, and he was not fated to survive this, it would hopefully be in their arms that he was taken. An untimely early end, but an acceptable one.

He lost himself to thoughts of the soldiers' reckoning with his brothers, eventually. Perhaps they would all reunite in Toulouse. Once Aramis was ensconced in blankets and bandages by a fire with wine and food and praise as the vindicated and successful soldier. And then Aramis was going to collapse and rest and dream of what Athos and Porthos and d’Artagnan would do to Corneul. He could see it, hear the accusations and the polite way in which they would rotate obtaining recompense. And then Aramis would…

He didn’t know what he would do because he was face-down in the dirt. He’d been thrown from the horse so quickly he’d barely registered the fall. At least they were stopping and it didn’t matter – much – that he’d fallen. Everything throbbed, but the sharp zing of his pinky finger, the burn on his thigh, and the ache in his groin were vying with each other for the greatest portion of Aramis’ attention. He had at least managed to yank one of the end ties from his small clothes to fasten the pinky to the ring finger in a poor attempt at a splint.

They were blessedly stopped, but it was nearing nightfall. Wherever they were making for – still not Toulouse – Corneul was keen to get there.

Gilles yanked him up and left him leant against a tree while he organized their tiny arrangements for the evening. The changeable weather of the fall was threatening frost and it was unseasonably chilled outside. His skin already prickled with the cold and they took his boots at night and this precaution in preventing his escape also robbed him of their protection against the wind. It had been a terrible day thus far and the night was already shaping up to be particularly horrible. There were no parts of himself that did not ache from throb of his snapped finger to the compromised muscle in his thigh. He knew however he would be constrained this night would only worsen the injuries. The men excelled in devising new means to secure him. 

Before he was secured down Gilles had held him upright for the officer to work over. Again, though he knew it wasn’t true, the tricky soldier kept Aramis’ mind flashing to Porthos. His brother had such a comforting embrace. Aramis had taken sick early on in their friendship on a field mission and the man hadn’t hesitated to wrap him up and hold him throughout the night. He told stories of growing up in the Court and how piling together was the best kind of care when you ached with fever and just wanted your mother. His mother he knew would forgive him for saying, but Porthos’ hold had come to be just as comforting as her own had been when he ailed. This awkward hold was nothing like his friend’s and the memories seemed a torment and a comfort all at once.

_“You find your own ways, yeah? Whatever it takes to survive.”_

Porthos’ voice returned when his knees hit the ground.

He knelt, his mind a haze, as the collar they’d created was tied and the rope staked a few inches before his knees. His neck was secured to it, and a further rope tightened his arms to his waist and that rope was fixed to a second picket behind him. He supposed he should be grateful he wasn’t standing on it.

_“You can’t make it better if you aren’t around to make it change.”_

He wanted to make it through this, he did. He’d thought their dwindling numbers would aid him, but he’d neglected to factor in the accumulation of ailments that would counterbalance the lack of remaining captors.

_“And there’s always a way. Might not be the one you thought or the one you want, but there’ll be one.”_

Aramis nearly cried. He desperately wanted to see his brothers again. He was not so sure there was a way. He clamped his lids against the threat and strained his ears. His wandering mind shifting its fog trying to clear to hear Porthos’ deep soothing.

“Hungry?”

No. That was “False Porthos.”

The hulking man stood over him, a bowl between his hands. He shifted it slightly and looked ready to dump it on Aramis as easily as he’d offered it.

_Porthos never joked about food._

Corneul was seated by the fire watching them and Gilles watched him for his direction. The man had asked few questions today, perhaps his drive to be where they were headed was overtaking his desire for answers.

“Not hungry, mutt?”

Aramis nearly snarled at the man, but why encourage him.

He shifted on his knees leaning his weight slightly and inclined his head towards Gilles waiting for the man to tilt the offering to him. He could bear a little indignity; it wasn’t as though they’d unsecure his bonds and his hands were so tight to his sides he couldn’t take it himself.

Gilles made no move.

“Beg.”

Aramis scoffed and eyed Gilles. He tried to see a way to appealing to the soldier’s basic decency over the officer’s order. _He truly was delirious._ Kindness would not come at this late hour for him. Gilles didn’t move.

Aramis said nothing and kept his eyes on the man above him.

“You want to eat? You beg for it.”

 _‘Beg.’_ Aramis’ pride was not so ignorant that he’d forfeit a retreat when it would save his life. He was hungry, it had been days now, but the water would sustain him. The broth yesterday and the bit this morning had been their usual thin, pungent fare and he could miss an evening’s bowl of it if this were the cost. There were some things a man’s pride would not bear.

“Pity, we had some bits of stew in there.”

 _Solid food?_ When had Aramis last been given anything that was not liquid? His mouth salivated at the suggestion of something other than broth or water. His Adam’s apple dragged at the resulting swallow and he waited.

“Very well. If the dog doesn’t want its dinner, then dump the scraps.”

Gilles, to his credit, looked unsure. Perhaps this behavior was not typical for them. Aramis hoped so. He knew all men were capable of unfathomable cruelty and soldiers saw more than most; their stations gave them the leeway to indulge it too. He hoped these men were honorable in their other dealings, they thought him a murderer and a spy after all.

His “False Porthos” poured the bowl out a few inches before the wood securing him to the earth. 

_What a waste._ He eyed the congealing little lumps spilt on the grass. Even the broth appeared to have been thicker this time. He reasoned it was still not worth the price, though his body would not last all that much longer without. He prayed this would not be the newest barrier to his survival, that it was a one-time game to amuse the man and push his resistance lower.

It was not until Conreul was asleep and Gilles staring into the fire, they had managed to set watches each night since the storm, that Aramis finally moved.

He leant over and bent his head and gently plucked the cold morsels from the grass.

 _“Whatever it takes to survive.”_ Porthos’ voice echoed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO   
> Panic Attacks | Hallucinations   
> *this marks beginning the mix-up of the prompts...if I have any hope of keeping this plot cohesive the rest of the prompts will be coming out of order ;)

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“God is full of mercy for everyone, as he has been towards you. He is a father before he is a judge.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis was secured a distance from the fire. He was still trying to abate nausea from so little food as he watched the kindling grow dimmer as it dwindled. Gilles was awake but paid him no heed, it was getting harder to make him out in the dark. The light tapering and the noise of the woods rising over the hissing embers started pulling at his mind. Dark, unfamiliar woods were not restful they were the setting for nightmares.

He did not want to close his eyes for fear of what he would find in the darkness. His thoughts were skittering through him as his breathing shallowed.

His breaths were dragging in as though through a sieve and his lungs expanded faster, demanding he breathe in time with their increased pace. The natural daily rhythm was thrown off and his mind and body spun out in different directions leaving him dizzy. Aramis had strained his memory for days trying to sort his convoluted thoughts. Now his past, his murky last few weeks and the torments of the last several days were colliding and overlapping. 

All his legitimate and foolish fears converged, each twisted memory trying to creep into the forefront of his consciousness. Before the branches around him conjured treacherous visions, he steered his racing mind to focus on the tiny embers. Like a lantern flame in the distance his eyes kept one flickering ember in his sight. His breathing was ratcheting to something dangerously shallow now and he poured himself into centering on a memory.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_He’d been alone in unfamiliar woods then too._

_It was not his fault. It was that man who said he was his father. It was his fault. The man introduced him to the younger boy and said they would be brothers. They were not brothers! Half-brothers by the man’s explanation. Both his sons. He didn’t like his supposed half-brother. A half-brother who hated him with a fervor he’d been too weighted by his own sadness to match._

_“Go away!” The boy called over his shoulder as Rene ambled after him in his father’s fields._

_“You aren’t welcome here!”_

_Rene didn’t want to be welcome here, he didn’t want to be here at all._

_“You’re just a bastard whoreson! My father will realize!” Of course, the man knew who Rene was, he’d come to claim him from a brothel._

_“And he won’t want you. He’ll put you out! He never should’ve brought you here!” The slightly younger boy shoved at him, crowding him back under an apple tree. He pushed at Rene so hard that one red fruit broke loose and plonked down on his head._

_“I know who my father is!” The elder bristled. He did not even want to be here, but the rapid fury of childish quarrels drove him to answer the insult. “He keeps telling me!” Rene screamed his frustration at the other boy._

_“And don’t you ever talk about my mother!” he was marginally taller than the other, but his theoretical sibling was larger framed. Rene shoved himself fully into the other’s chest as he pushed viciously forwards._

_His victory in getting him down to the ground was short-lived since the other proved only momentarily stunned. The boy flipped Rene over to his back as Rene squirmed and kicked wildly at him. He was briefly disoriented when a fist clipped his eye, but anger bolstered his stamina. They rolled several times, the stupid boy was stronger, but Rene was quicker. A skillset that served him well in this fight as his elbow caught the other boy’s nose._

_He crowed aloud as blood leaked over the fuming boys face._

_“You rotten…!” Behind both his hands the boy’s muffled screeching still carried._

_Rene sat smugly on his heels debating if he should press his advantage and strike again._

_“I’m telling father! You’ll be sorry!”_

_He hadn’t thought about that. His mother often cautioned him that he was forever discounting the consequences of his actions. His actions this time yielded pleasing results; the boy was rocking in pain. She called him impetuous. Impish too, sometimes. And many other things he’d never hear her say again it seemed._

_“He’ll beat you for this, he will. He’ll whip strips right off you. I hope he locks you in the cellar.” The boy seethed before kicking Rene off him and running._

_Rene regretted nothing of the encounter._

_He traipsed through the orchard alone, heedless of direction, evading some of the man’s tenants. He knew a whoreson was not a kind word, but he also knew it was not untrue. He did not care what anyone said, he would never let a soul disparage his mother. Poking at a hole in his new trousers, he did his best to clear them of the mushed fruit remnants but only managed to spread dirt deeper into the cloth._

_Would it hurt very badly?_

_His mother had never physically chastised him. And the few times the brothel madam threatened it she’d ultimately abandoned the idea to the boy’s convincing arguments against it._

_Would he really bleed?_

_He knew little about this man who called him son. Was he a cruel man or a patient one?_

_Would Rene be sent to the cellar? Or even sent away?_

_Where would he go? He possessed little and didn’t even know where he was._

_He did not care, and he certainly would not cry. He did not want to be here just as much as they did not want him. Let the boy keep his stupid father, he certainly didn’t need one. He didn’t need anyone. He had done fine without a father for over ten years, he just wanted his mother._

_He touched his still tender cheek annoyed to find it was wet with tears rather than blood from his battle._

_He slowed his breathing and swiped at his face. No sense panicking._

_Fine then, let them come now and he would give none when the man came for him later. His mother was worthy of his tears, but he would never shed any for this man who’d asked he call him father._

_Rene’s circling thoughts took notice of neither the sun lowering nor the fields changing; he didn’t observe the darkening sky or the thickening trees. Not really. Not until he shivered with chill and stopped did he realize he had no idea where he was._

_His breath stuttered out in little puffs that dispersed on the biting night air._

_He was lost and now the man would be livid with his son’s testimony and the stranger he brought home was gallivanting alone in the woods at night. Maybe the man would not care. He was likely angry about his son but maybe he would be home tending the stupid boy’s stupid nose._

_Which meant nobody would come._

_Nobody to tend his hurts._

_He was alone._

_Taken from his maman and lost in the woods._

_“Rene!”_

_He didn’t know where he’d wound up, but it seemed he had been found._

_A small flame floated and was getting larger as the one holding it approached._

_Should he fight him? Would it make his punishment worse? He could run, but where would he go?_

_He was still mired in self-debate when a warm cloak pressed close to him held by the circle of the man’s arms. “You foolish child, I’ve been searching for you for hours.”_

_The man did not sound furious, but sometimes the quietest whisper carried the fiercest rage of all._

_And, he’d been out here searching. For hours._

_For him._

_He was still braced to be struck, but the hand he felt the man raise aloft only cradled his skull pushing him further into the man’s hold._

_“You do not know this landscape, yet, Rene. You should not wander so far.”_

_“Cease” He held firm as the boy tried to pull back. “Hubert is still grieving; you must be patient with each other.”_

_It seemed the night went very quiet before the man moved him back slightly and tightened the warmed fabric closer to his chest._

_The adult tapped a finger lightly under his left eye, “It seems Hubert exempted some details from his story. Are you hurt anywhere else?”_

_Rene shook his head slowly in disbelief. The man had not struck him once, maybe that awful boy was prone to exaggerating details as well as omitting them._

_“Hmm,” the man was already investigating the slender fingers that gripped the cloak closed. “We’ll soon mend these too.” Rene had not noticed he’d hurt his own knuckles on the ground with that stupid boy. As the cloak was the older man’s it dwarfed him and Rene wriggled his other arm from its folds._

_“Let’s go home,” the man’s request was soft as he reached down for Rene’s liberated arm. He thought the man meant to take his hand, but soon found himself locking his legs round the adult’s waist to stabilize the carry. Perhaps a few tears for the man he might call father were allowable._

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis steadied his breath and refocused on the ember’s scant light. He’d been carried all the way back to the man’s house and placed before a freshly stoked fire despite the late hour. He smiled remembering how he was given a sip of brandy and covered in blankets to fall asleep in a relative stranger’s arms. It was not the last time he would be the sole instigator of the man’s worry; it was the first time he’d felt that the man and the house were home. 

He kept slowing his breathing, as he remembered his father’s embrace. As he calmed he imagined his father at the edge his vision, but the boots standing there when he opened his eyes trailed up to a very unkind visage.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING   
> Wrongfully Accused

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“If you wish to discover the guilty person, first find out to whom the crime might be useful.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Gilles and Corneul had traded the watch.

Aramis had been so lost to his memories he’d not registered the approach. The scenes behind his eyes transporting him so that he heard nothing outside the recollections of the sprawling orchard and woods past his father’s lands.

It must be well past midnight now and tipping closer to morning. Corneul stared down at him as though preparing for another barrage of questions. Perhaps he wanted further vengeance for his bitten hand. Aramis had hoped the insistence on his begging and dumping of his meal had covered that. 

He loathed this man’s tactics. The attacks to his pride, his person, and yet for all his torments the man had not endangered him beyond what could not be undone or halted. Healing these ails, eventually, was another matter entirely. The garroting had been monitored, the drowning ended in time, even the unsavory threat of castration was not real and it was the cut that was unforgivable. 

“Tell me the meaning of the letters and we end this farce.”

He was a persistent soldier, Aramis had to give him that, but it was all he would give the man.

He remembered pieces. He’d been trying for days now to remember anything of his time in Foix. Mere snatches of letters and words that together coded out names he’d identified. Catullus for the “C” then there was an “O” he could hear the din of the men drinking in blurred clusters around him and felt the flexing of his own fingers scrawling the names. It’d taken nearly all his days in Foix to obtain names and connections. There was still more to unearth but this would be their way to ending this.

“Speak the truth and it’s over.”

It would be over, true. And maybe for the best. If Corneul thought he had information to finally bring to Fournier then he would have to bring Aramis to Toulouse. It would end then. Just not the way Corneul intended.

“I’m not a spy.”

“I said the truth.”

Damn the man’s single-mindedness. The days and the pains had muddled his mind, and the clumps of memory were slow in shaking loose more remembrances.

“That is the truth.”

Aramis was exhausted. He’d resist to his death if he had to, but it made more sense to try for Toulouse. They were allies, they all wanted to prevent the network of messaging from expanding. He couldn’t confess the Musketeers entire mission, or his findings, but if he could persuade the man. A little information to pave the path to Toulouse.

“The papers, show me them.”

“You wrote them. You don’t need to see them.”

Aramis resisted huffing a breath in frustration. He was still lightheaded from his labored breathing, but the memories of his father were close to the surface. Maybe that’s what engendered his heart to try once more with the man.

He willed the man to believe. There was still time to decipher the names and get them to Treville and Fournier. The risk would be worth it and he only had to remember one name, or even one location to support his innocence.

“Show me and I will translate.”

“No.”

“It’s been days, I cannot remember their meanings.”

_Reason had not worked yet._

“You expect me to believe that? You murdered a man to protect them.”

“I didn’t murder anyone!”

“You murdered Correau!”

Their faces were close enough to share breath as they hissed at each other. Finally in range for Aramis to bite again and he couldn’t since his newest method entailed the man feeling gracious towards him. Maybe it was grace, but it just as easily could have been desperation, that jostled a fragment of recollection. And like so many tiny drops can soon become a deluge the memory washed over him at once.

“Correau!” He shook his head and straightened as best he could on his knees between the pickets.

“Yes. Correau. That is the name of the man you murdered.”

“No. It’s in those papers!”

Corneul paused whatever he’d been about to say and bore his gaze into the kneeling man. Neither moved. It was a long time before Corneul’s whisper carried a question, “What?”

Even if the man showed him the writings, they would just circle each other. Too many complications would present themselves in the translation and though the officer was not lacking intellect Aramis had no idea if the man was widely read or spoke enough languages to follow the unwinding of his encryptions.

“I know you won’t believe me, but I am telling you the truth. I am not a spy. He was your man, perhaps your friend and brother, but he was not loyal. He was meeting potential marks for information gathering. He was one of the spies we are seeking!”

“I believe you, Musketeer,” Corneul checked over at Gilles’ sleeping lump. He continued his whisper and leaned into Aramis as though they were sharing a confidence, “I know he was.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 19. BROKEN HEARTS  
> Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“…he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

After an evening questioning Pierre, confirming his story, and having him run them through events several times they’d debated their plans. Porthos had been ready to make for the camp that night, d’Artagnan had agreed and Pierre had insisted he could find the original camp site in the dark.

Once again, it was to Athos to make the unpopular and necessary decisions. To pack down any emotional impetus he might feel to go against the reason that would keep them all safe. He would not risk his brother’s life further by endangering all of them on gambles bid in desperation. 

“If you ain’t going to sleep, then what’s the point of us waiting for morning?”

Athos stared down into the darkness of the countryside and didn’t respond. He’d come up to the walkway between the two towers to clear his mind. He’d left d’Artagnan to negotiate the boy’s escape from Lorraine and Porthos had stormed away earlier when his proposals were rejected. Athos knew he would not leave on his own, but it was a comfort that Porthos had sought him out after their tense exchanges.

“Kid is asleep.” Porthos braced himself on the stone, “d’Artagnan’s out too.”

“And you are not…because?”

“Thought I just asked you that.”

Athos bit down his inclination to dryly point out that Porthos had in fact just informed Athos of the obvious and asked – again – why they had not left. He supposed that would not be the best tactic, and since Porthos had extended the olive branch by coming up here, it was only fair that Athos give way.

“I cannot sleep.” It seemed months, not days since Aramis had confessed the same to him standing outside Mathilde’s barn on the eve of their mission. Athos kept his eyes fixed in the blackness beyond the city, rather than his brother’s profile at his shoulder. It made it easier to state, “I am worried for him.”

In his periphery he saw Porthos’ fists clench on the stone, this close he felt his brother’s entire body seize, “If you’re so worried then why aren’t we…” and then release. He huffed out his breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Corneul believes him one of the spies, he will not kill him.” Athos had been repeating that mantra in the back of his mind since Pierre detailed his time with Aramis and the soldiers. “He will bring him to Fournier.”

“And he’s been treated so well so far…” Rather than accusatory Porthos’ sarcastic remark just sounded tired. He wasn’t trying to convince Athos to leave sooner, he knew they’d have a worse time searching in the dark. They’d exhaust themselves from lack of sleep, risk laming the horses, miss clues, and delay themselves from reaching Aramis at all. 

“You heard the kid. Corneul thinks Aramis killed his man. Already had him on a picket, beat him…” Porthos turned full to Athos now, concern tinging the anger in his voice. “He hunted him through the woods and…”

“I was there. I heard what Pierre said…”

Porthos cut him off with a firm hand pressing his shoulder until he was forced to turn with it. 

“And you’re ‘worried.’ He could kill him out there if he hasn’t already.” Staring at each other across such a short distance, Athos expected accusation but all he saw was a man seeking reassurance.

It did nothing to assuage Athos’ own guilt for not attempting more to find Aramis when he didn’t make their meeting. He’d made every decision since calculating the risks and outcomes for the best chance at recovering their brother. With Pierre’s proof that Aramis was alive, and in the hands of French soldiers, they needed to go after them with the best chance of actually finding them and not stumbling blindly through France. Fournier would exonerate Aramis when the soldiers reached Toulouse.

_“This is Porthos!”_

_“Don’t you care about Porthos?”_

He could almost feel the rush of breath on his cheek accompany the memory. He heard the echo, saw Porthos laid out on the ground. He could see Aramis pushing towards d’Artagnan angered away from reason at the mere suggestion of questioning Porthos’ honor. Aramis was a patient man, but there were certain instances and people for whom his temper was a quick burning fuse.

_“Don’t you care? Don’t you…?”_

He chased the echo back. He did. They knew he did. Just as he knew Aramis couldn’t help the explosive expressions any more than Athos could have kept himself from being constricted to inaction from his gnarled past. The man was passion personified in the same way Athos’ own depression would drag him to wallow in memory Aramis’ emotions would cause him to act before thinking. He’d warred with himself over leaving Aramis finally departing to gather d’Artagnan and Porthos for Aramis’ sake. Asking his brothers to wait now owed nothing to his past and everything to his deep care for them. All of them. 

With the stakes so high, and the man so precious, every choice was painful and each decision mired him in self-doubt. He was resolved that waiting a little longer now was the correct choice. D’Artagnan had said nothing further and went to bed after their discussion, after Porthos had stormed out of the room in silence. For the youngest of them compliance when his heart was prone to defying orders that countered his emotions touched Athos. It was a foot hold in the ever-receding ground of this mission. 

They’d considered making straight for the city, but Pierre’s vehement declarations that Corneul wanted vengeance meant they needed to follow him. D’Artangan wanted to question Boucher, but they’d found he and Corbeau had made for the physician’s home. The rider sent to recall the men had not returned yet. Athos hoped they would be back before dawn. The boy offered to show the way to his father’s home, but Athos refused to set out in any direction that was not directly after Aramis and didn’t want to risk splitting their number at this point. They would rest and leave in the earliest morning hours, well before the Chateau awoke and make straight for the first camp.

“If it was one of us, you think the rest would just be escorting the killer back to the garrison?”

Of course they wouldn’t. They would take the ill-fated man somewhere isolated which was precisely why Athos wanted them to make the camp at first light. They could pick up the trail and pursue Aramis and his captors to wherever Corneul and his men might be holding him.

With the injuries Pierre relayed – likely the initial of many – the group would not be moving quickly. It had not stormed since Aramis escaped the soldiers briefly and there was every chance they would pick up their direction. They’d be moving slowly burdened by the injured man and if they were intent on vengeance it would mean stopping. Athos’ stomach soured thinking the best aid in getting to Aramis would be through his own torture, or because the group’s travel was slowed by it.

“He’s alone out there.”

Athos’ turning insides wouldn’t tolerate wine currently, but he craved it as he envisioned all the torments his brother’s words evoked. His guilt at leaving Aramis to his fate had subsided at Pierre’s intel that Aramis was taken by fellow soldiers, even when the murder of one was revealed. Fournier would want the investigation, the trial, the chance to interrogate and the soldiers under his command would have to deliver Aramis if he was their suspect. The apprehension had renewed tenfold as Pierre inventoried the harm their brother had sustained thus far. Three-to-one and with a blood debt to settle.

“If I could change places, I would.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Athos.”

“They have to take him to Fournier.” The assurance sounded weaker spoken aloud.

“And he just has to survive until then.” Porthos grumbled and turned to gaze outwards.

“He will.” Athos turned to lean along with Porthos. “He’ll know Toulouse stands guarantee for him. You know of all of us he’s capable of considerable persuasion.”

“Ain’t exactly like charming a tavern maid for rooms or convincing Treville the brandy was already two thirds empty.”

“We’ll find him, Porthos.” Athos kept staring into the night trying to suppress memories of another vigil, with another worried brother kept from his bed, outside a barn. He was grateful he’d at least brought comfort to Aramis then if he could not do the same for Porthos now. He could not even draw solace for himself.

As Porthos’ shoulder pressed to his in a mirror to his own leant on Aramis weeks ago, Athos reminded himself that’s what their brotherhood meant. Drawing strength from each other, being the support when one could not shore himself.

“You were right meeting us.” If this was apology for the barn Athos would take it unremarked as it was not needed.

Athos only replied, “It won’t be long.” He knew neither he nor Porthos would find rest. The deep black would leech its color in a few hours, and they’d leave with the first inkling of lightening sky. “We’ll wake d’Artagnan soon.”

And then they would recover their stolen brother.

“No matter what happens, we’ll be together.” Porthos pressed more firmly into him. “We’ll find him together.” He sounded more certain as he insisted it to Athos and the wind.

They’d tear down the world for each other. If they had to fight their own countrymen for Aramis they would.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE  
> Lost

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Toulouse is to the north, why take him west?” D’Artagnan drew himself up from the horse tracks. He moved from Athos’ side and headed over to the tree line where Porthos crouched.

“They’re keeping off the roads.” Athos trailed after him.

“If I hadn’t dropped the knife maybe he would’ve…”

“Aramis is good, lad, but even he stood no chance with or without a knife.”

Pierre smiled ruefully over at Porthos, “If he hadn’t sent me away I…”

“Could’ve what? Stopped a crossbow?” Porthos lurched up and made for his horse.

“I’m sorry.” Pierre whispered up at Athos. D’Artagnan had already altered course to follow after Porthos.

“Not necessary, come.” Athos had his eyes on his brothers but extended an arm towards Pierre. “You’ll ride with…” 

Pierre had been riding with Porthos this morning, but the mercurial mood would likely become more volatile as they continued their tracking. D’Artangnan was mounting and trying to keep Porthos focused relaying theories on their potential trajectory. The two were already following the tracks before Athos moved for his own horse.

“…me.”

He walked briskly and again kept his eyes on his brothers while extending a hand downward. Once Pierre was swung up before him Athos angled to trail behind the other two, scanning for anything they might miss. The two were already several yards ahead. 

“They’ll be stopping each night, and every time they…” Porthos trailed off on a growl.

“So they’ll be moving slow. We find each camp, and with luck we catch them up by tonight. They’re not covering their trail.”

“He was so close,” d’Artagnan kept silent knowing Porthos was wrestling with futile regrets and imaginings. “They weren’t holding him that far.”

“And there was no way to know. We wouldn’t have found this place without the boy and it might have taken days to even meet him if Athos hadn’t overheard him in the courtyard.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just hate thinking of him out here at their mercy while we…”

“Were what? Lounging? He knows we’ll be looking for him.” D’Artagnan drew tighter alongside Porthos. “He knows we won’t abandon him, Porthos.”

“Hard to cling to out there. When it’s just you and whatever pain they’re putting to you.”

They’d all been captured, held prisoner, willingly been taken, some ransomed, some escaped, all combinations and alone and every time the others would come. Sometimes when they intended rescue it was to reunite with an already escaped brother awaiting them, other times it was chaos. In the end they always found their way back to each other.

“Put him in shackles.” Porthos glanced over, “He’s rubbish with them.”

D’Artagnan was conflicted about the laugh but in the end couldn’t help the breathy chuckle that broke over the breeze.

“You know he is.” Porthos turned back to the ground a smile broad over his “Least he admits it.”

“Precisely why he’ll need us to rescue him.” D’Artagnan said airily in hopes of keeping Porthos in a lighter mindset. “And then you can reinstate practice while he recovers.”

“Plenty of time then. Don’t know what state he’ll be in when we find him, how long to heal.” Porthos’ mouth pushed down. He glanced over, his face softened with a bit of guilt at turning the mood again, “I’ll expect you to join him, you’re not all that much better.”

D’Artagnan grinned in concession. It was true, much to all their amusement, d’Artagnan was better than Aramis but not exceptionally skilled. Of course, the disparity in skill was enough to be disconcerting to Aramis. He’d been good natured about it, but they all had learned just how far they could push their teasing. It turned out it was quite far, they all had skills the others were invariably not as proficient with so it stood to reason they’d help each other.

“True,” D’Artagnan glanced behind to see Athos steadily checking their path, Pierre grinned broadly at him. He smiled more for the sight of the lad saddled with Athos than acknowledgement of his progress with escaping shackles. “But I’m getting better!”

Porthos gave a real laugh in response. “Yeah, you are. More than I can say for Aramis.” He exchanged the reins to his other hand as they turned slightly northward. He shook his head as he leant over a bit to examine the ground. “Still can’t fathom how a man so damn precise with a needle can’t manage the same with a pick.”

They passed most of the morning discussing refresher lessons and respite. 

It was easing into midday when they reached the second camp.

The remnants of a fire pit and tufts of disturbed earth were prominent in the clearing.

D’Atagnan knelt tracing along the grass and dirt. “Whatever they did, he was fighting them.”

Porthos stood behind his shoulder, “Can’t imagine what they might’ve used a fire for.” He trailed off, knowing they all could well imagine many methods for employing fire on a man held down. “Wonder what came first?”

Porthos didn’t wait for them to speak, he didn’t even glance back as he caught sight of deep ruts and torn up ground indicating more dragging. In moments he was at the stream’s edge. When he heard the underbrush crunching behind him he spoke again, “Thinking it was this. These trace back to the tree, then circle over to the fire pit.”

He crossed his arms staring to the ground as though he could unmake the history temporarily preserved upon it. They all could read the indications of the boot marks, the displaced ground, the furrowed mud sloping to the water.

“Held him under.” Porthos stated the obvious. 

“Why would they…” Pierre uttered.

“To force Aramis to talk. The more times you’re forced under the more difficult to draw breath, to struggle against breathing while under, to resist panic. It’s ruthless, but it is a tactic. He’s questioning him.” Athos tried to reason out the evidence as a proof that despite the torments the soldiers would not kill their brother.

“He won’t talk.” D’Artagnan’s lips quirked at Pierre’s quiet insistence.

“No.” Porthos stalked back along the markings to further examine the clearing. “He won’t.”

Athos was satisfied that nothing else would be gleaned from the remnants. There was little point in speculating on Aramis’ suffering past indicating that he still lived. “Find the trail!”

“It splits.” D’Artagnan called back from where he’d marked the soldiers’ horses.

When the three drew closer he continued moving, pointing along to the horses’ paths and the single set of boot prints that were stamped over with hoofprints. “The single horse...moves off here.”

“The other two must have kept him between them.” Porthos kicked at a clear set of boot impressions. “He’s limping.”

“If the solo rider breaks off that direction, he would hit the main road for Toulouse. Unless the intention was for the soldier to ride back to Foix.” Athos stated, turning back for their own horses.

“Corneul sent one of them ahead then. He wouldn’t entrust a spy to his men.” D’Artagnan still looked troubled by everything they discovered. Enthusiasm crept into his voice as he reasoned out the implications. “If he sent someone before their arrival then they must be close enough that they will be expected within the next days.” 

“Precisely. We follow the other two.” Athos didn’t look to see them mount their own horses, just silently extended his arm down for Pierre.

Ignoring the trail to the main roads, they kept winding through the distinctive path of the others. They’d lose it just as easily as they’d pick it up again, mainly from ruts and deep gouge marks to the dirt from Aramis’ uneven stumbles. The direction made no sense, they were not circling, but they were changing direction. For a half an hour they were angling northeast, only to then move west, then angle northeast again and if they headed eastwards it would inevitably trail back north after some time.

The meandering path spent down the majority of daylight before they reached any signs of the soldiers’ stopping.

“Least they put him on horse.” Porthos drew himself back up and glanced back to where Athos was cautiously studying the incline. The dirt was scored deeply with prints of men and horses overlapping. He pulled d’Artagnan back up before breaking off to follow the horses’ movements.

“We can’t keep circling,” Athos hated to have to state the obvious, but it was darkening earlier with the season and the trail had long disappeared. They were reduced to false paths and false hope, following along for a bit before turning back and restarting.

“Right then, we’ve lost it.” Porthos circled back and stopped alongside him. “What now?”

“We head for the main road. Make camp,” Porthos and d’Artagnan nodded agreement which made the next piece more difficult. “Then head for Toulouse tomorrow.”

Athos felt Pierre’s head snap up, but he refused to look. “We can reach it by midday.”

Porthos looked murderous, but he only floated out, “Treville may be there by now.”

Athos nodded, “We’ll organize a search with him and Fournier.” There was a selfish piece of his heart that wanted to keep searching, it would be desperate and likely fruitless, but it was there nonetheless.

“Fournier may know where Corneul would hold a prisoner?” As d’Artagnan mounted his horse he put out the suggestion.

“It’s possible.” Athos answered him.

“Then we make for Toulouse, fast as we're able.” Porthos was in the saddle before he finished speaking.

“We’ll soak some rags to branch and ride as long as we can by torchlight. A brief camp will carry us through a rest, and we can reach the city by noon.”

No one voiced dissent. 

⚜⚜⚜⚜

They exhausted the light reaching a navigable road to safely travel by night. They slowed their pace but pressed on until it was nearing midnight and made camp in a clearing back from the main travel way.

Pierre and Athos slept opposite the modest fire, but d’Artagnan kept watch alongside Porthos. There was little need, they were clearly not being followed, but it was unlikely that Porthos would rest and d’Artagnan was wired with his own misgivings.

“I almost left.” D’Artagnan’s whispered confession was nearly stolen on the chilly wind.

Porthos said nothing but angled his head to indicate attention despite continuing to stare at the flames. The lack of scrutiny helped d’Artagnan along with the rest. “I wanted to ride for Corbeau’s. I thought…” It seemed so foolish now, head over heart indeed, he was glad he curbed the instinctive rush to action. “I thought that I could make it there and back before dawn. I just wanted to do something. Anything really, anything but wait.”

Porthos nodded at the fire and said nothing.

“I had the covers off and my boots on before I thought better of it. How foolish to ride alone, to rush off, that separating only endangered Aramis.”

“Already said nothing about your arm, you gonna make me keep this quiet too?”

D’Artagnan wouldn’t have taken him seriously even if Porthos hadn’t turned to smile at him. The small fire highlighted the dimpled grin, but the view was lost when Porthos turned again to confess his own thoughts to the firelight.

“I nearly left.”

D’Artagnan barely breathed.

“Got to the stables, saddled him up, and just stood there staring across at “her highness” for close to an hour.”

“What stopped you?”

“Athos.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

“Not actually.” Porthos had turned back to him. “But he trusted me not to. So I found him, he was brooding between those towers all night. Like some lonely sentry. Or a bearded gargoyle.”

“Surely your scar is more fearsome than my beard.”

The dry assertion prevented d’Artagnan’s laugh, and so he asked, “Did we wake you?”

“No. Now get to sleep before I am tempted to leave you both behind when you’re not up with dawn from lack of it.”

Dawn saw them all awake and pushing the horses and themselves towards reaching Toulouse. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?  
> Drugged

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Never trust the enemy that gives you presents.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Surely Aramis misheard that.

Or he was misinterpreting that statement.

Corneul knew Correau was a spy and he was keeping up this farce to draw the rest out?

How did Correau die then?

Why did Corneul insist on dragging them all over the godforsaken woods then?

Had Aramis killed him? If he was a spy had someone else killed him?

He drew a breath and leaned back slightly. He intended to work through his questions if the man was willing to speak. Now he believed him a Musketeer? Before he could fully open his mouth to say anything Corneul bent over him.

“I know, Musketeer, because he worked for me.”

Oh.

“Here.” Corneul held up a vial and popped the cork free. “You’re so confused, Corbeau provided this for you, it will help.”

Aramis had no chance to close his lips as liquid poured forth and no chance to redirect it before Corneul’s gloved hands clamped over his mouth and nose to hold his head still.

If he could have spared more thought to it Aramis might have bemoaned that his mind had been unclear for days. It was a poor defense for having fallen into an enemy’s hands for this long. To be fair he really did think them soldiers, then again his inclination for suspicion had been hampered as of late.

“Now, this will help keep you very quiet. And you will be quiet. We don’t want to wake Gilles after all.”

Did that mean Gilles was not a spy? Were the others? The doctor? He’d been so kind, but so angry and cold at the end. How many ‘Cor-’ names were coded in those papers? Why couldn’t he remember! Was this what Corneul demanded of Corbeau? Was it poison?

“Monsieur Lazare, was it?”

_This scum. This absolute villain. To think he’d felt empathy, reasoned with himself. He tried to reason with them!_

Corneul was never taking him to Toulouse. There were rumblings in the circles he infiltrated that there might be a senior officer or high-level guard from the prison involved. It was why Fournier left the garrison while they investigated. How did he miss this?

“You traitor!”

And Corneul would kill him. His fatal mistake came with admitting he was one of the Musketeers. Perhaps it had even come before that. Corneul would never let him live now and it seemed he’d only kept him alive this long to try to piece together what Aramis knew.

“Shut your mouth, dog!”

Aramis yanked forward, trying to get his shoulders into Corneul’s knees. The momentum was halted when Corneul jerked his hair and shoved dirty linen in his mouth. The vile taste instantly drew saliva as he attempted to spit it out but a thinner piece tied about his head kept it in. He dragged air in through his nose and forced himself to abate gagging. Vomiting with his mouth blocked would not end well. 

“Lieutenant?” Gilles’ large frame was silhouetted by the fire as he approached. 

“Everything is well Gilles.” Corneul addressed the man as though he were remarking on a particularly dull watch. “This filthy mongrel just confessed to killing Correau. A bit more of Corbeau’s tincture and we may obtain the names from him.” He flashed the empty bottle at the soldier.

“Guess that’s better than the broth, any more of it?” Gilles halted at Aramis’ side. “That enough to keep him compliant?”

That confirmed to Aramis that he’d been drugged, he’d thought the broth tasted strange but credited their cooking and his dehydrated senses. At least it would account for his continued confusion. Still he didn’t think Gilles was working with Corneul in any other capacity than as soldiers.

 _‘He’s the spy’_ was not an easy phrase to articulate through two layers of thick cloth. Nothing was easy to articulate actually and every phrase Aramis tried was mangled beyond recognition.

“Another vial. He’s less trouble this way but he’ll have to ride with you again. I have a cabin, not far, we’ll continue questioning him there.”

Gilles didn’t look swayed by either of them. Aramis continued trying to scream the truth through the gag to him and gestured wildly with his head at Corneul, but it only resulted in garbled noises. 

“It’s a hunting lodge, well stocked. We’ll have the full truth yet.”

“The Captain will be expecting us.”

“Bourdin will handle it.” Corneul turned back down to Aramis. “Now shut him up, I don’t want to listen to any more of this beast’s baying.”

Unfortunately, Aramis’ attempts at responding sounded very much like nonsensical growling.

All noises ceased when Gilles used his considerable strength against the back of Aramis’ skull.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“S’too cold. Stop.”_

_“Hush.” The damp cloth was not removed, but the pressure of the hand holding it eased in compromise._

_Athos moved the wetted fabric along Aramis’ clavicle and to the arm he could reach. Aramis just shivered in his arms tucking deeper into the bunched linen of Athos’ shirt. Lain on his side the infected wound at his shoulder was open to the air, while Aramis’ left arm was tucked around behind Athos’ back. Pressed together like this Aramis’ shivering vibrated directly into Athos and he could feel how hot his brother’s skin was. The dampness was partly owed to the cloth Athos was stroking over him and partly from his own feverish sweating._

_The water itself was tepid, Aramis never soaked them in hot or cold water insisting to his brothers it wouldn’t do to shock a body. The physician had left hours ago, Treville insisted he check the wound daily, but after the past few days the doctor had informed them there was little else he could do for him._

_They were keeping the scraggly cut clean, but the infected flesh was harrowing to look at. In some ways it was a blessing that Aramis did not have full view of it, though not for lack of trying…he’d nearly torn the initial stitches open contorting himself to get a better look. Athos and Porthos eventually conceded in coordinating mirrors to angle the glass so he could see when they returned to the garrison. They were worried more so now that he’d stopped asking to view it._

_“Where’s Porthos?”_

_“Likely exactly where I told you he was not five minutes ago.”_

_“Oh.”_

_Athos felt his moustache twitch against his skin as Aramis spoke again, he’d removed his scarf hours prior when Aramis complained it itched. He took pity knowing the fever was irregularly stealing his brother’s thoughts._

_“He went to get you soup and to see if Serge has some brandy for your throat.”_

_“I have Treville’s…”_

_“Aramis.” Athos lightly chided shaking his own head over the dark one resting on his chest._

_“He brought it for me.” Aramis swatted weakly at Athos’ thigh._

_Very weakly, Athos was troubled to note._

_“On the table, it’s…”_

_Athos was surprised to see there was a bottle ensconced amidst the cloths, and the water pitcher, and cups, and bandages, and tinctures, and half eaten bread, and everything they’d been attempting to ease him with._

_“Armagnac?” Athos was more impressed than surprised._

_“Well…he is from Gascony…”_

_“Mmm.” Athos continued moving the damp cloth over Aramis’ back, avoiding the deeply discolored wound. It was a third empty and likely Treville had brought it during his own vigil in Aramis’ room. They’d been taken off roster on return from their mission, though Porthos and Athos’ own injuries were minor, and had been kept on notice but not returned to duty since. Still even they needed to rest and Treville often accompanied the physician and stayed long after._

_“It’s quite fine…I think he’s worried.”_

_Athos avoided stating the obvious. Aramis’ fever had been raging for five days now. The man could be obstinate at times about admitting an injury but knowing full well the consequences of soldiering he was generally quite accepting of all attention once injured. They’d done their best tending it on the road back to Paris, but it had been jagged and deep and the weapon, along with themselves, had been far from clean. Travel took poor care of a wounded man. He’d been stable when they reached the garrison, but it was only hours after their arrival that the physician had to slice their uneven stitching and reopen the wound to drain it._

_“Please, enough.” Aramis caught his fingers on the downstroke along his spine. Calling it a grip would be overly generous. Instead Athos dropped the cloth and turned his own palm to hold the trembling fingers. He guided Aramis’ hand back to rest with his own where it had previously been perched on Athos’ leg._

_“Alright. Think you can manage a sip while we wait?”_

_Feeling Aramis nod Athos got the bottle open one handed and poured a small measure into a cup. He saved having to offer the cup to Aramis by keeping his hand resting on Aramis’ and moved it to his lips. He knew if he offered it Aramis would want to try, frustrate himself, only to become more worried and more disheartened. They’d already had disastrous results with broth and generally only allowed him to hold water. If that spilled at least it cooled him and he couldn’t complain since it’d been his own hand that applied it._

_“Just a sip.” Athos cautioned._

_“I cannot decide who is worse…” Aramis took his sip and dropped immediately back to Athos as though just lifting his head exhausted him. It most likely did. The pause after he took his small mouthful might’ve been difficulty swallowing or savoring the liquid to ease his throat – both were equally likely. He continued musing once he swallowed._

_“…you fuss more over the details. Porthos fusses more about the bedding and in general. And Treville…well…”_

_“You’re surely not going to claim Treville fusses?”_

_He felt the arm behind him shift as Aramis drew up to peer at him. “He brought a full bottle, Athos.”_

_Athos tipped the remainder back to his own mouth, “And you’re correct, quite fine.”_

_Aramis attempted to look scandalized, but the sweat-limp hair and sallow face skewed his intent. “You’d steal brandy from a…”_

_‘…dying man.’ It went unuttered between them, the normally easy joke too imaginable to be given breath._

_The door banging the wall on its opening pulled them back from their macabre thinking._

_“Right. You’re managing all of it this time. Serge’s orders.” Porthos balanced a tray with several large bowls, a pile of bread chunks, some apples, cheese, cups, two pitchers and a dark glass bottle. He kicked the door shut and ambled over to them._

_Aramis’ troubled glance was more convincing than his attempt at scandalized. He swung his gaze between them before closing his eyes from the dizziness it caused him. “Porthos…I cannot eat all of that. I…”_

_“Yeah? Good thing it ain’t all for you then.”_

_Athos lifted his right hand from Aramis’ to help Porthos make room on the side table to change out the pitcher. He’d set the laden tray on the room’s table before swapping the bowl of water they were using with the cloths. After considering a moment he moved the table to the side of the bed and slid it until it butted against the frame._

_“He delirious again?” He looked straight at Athos, before smiling over at Aramis. “Nursing you is hungry work! Your task is the broth, water, and some of the blackberry brandy Serge found.”_

_Aramis tipped his chin to examine the tray further._

_“Let’s start with the broth. We took care of the brandy while you were gone.”_

_“When did you manage…”_

_“Treville brought it.” Aramis sniffed._

_“Oh, well that was nice of him.” Porthos reached for the Captain’s gifted bottle and poured some into a cup from the tray. “Oo, that’s nice.”_

_“That’s all yours.” Porthos lifted a bowl to Athos._

_Through trial and error and not a small amount of frustration on all their parts it was found generally best for either Porthos or Athos to hold the bowl. Aramis would tip it as he wanted to and the small allowance for Aramis’ pride had prevented any more accidents so far. Serge knew better than to send anything too hot, but Athos was still peeved over the near scalding he got the night they returned when Aramis insisted that he could do it himself._

_Their current arrangements were Aramis’ own idea. His body ached, he alternately kicked all the covers off and then demanded every blanket in the room. The mattress was too scratchy, the pillow too cold, he wouldn’t wear anything but his smalls since a night shirt was out of the question given the state of his wound. He couldn’t be on his back, he’d dismissed attempting to sleep on his stomach as it was too uncomfortable, and he could not be on his right shoulder since the wound was over the back of it. They’d changed the pillows several times before Aramis finally dragged Porthos down to prop himself up. Since then they’d mainly swapped supporting him until he complained that they were making him too hot, or protested he was too cold when they bathed him with the cloths that he originally asked them for. Aside from bringing him more comfort, holding him themselves they were able to stop his thrashing fits before he caused more distress to the ravaged shoulder._

_Athos was mulling over a lukewarm bath again; those soaks had not gone horribly and Aramis complaint less of sensitivity than with the compresses. It also made swapping out the bed linens easier. One had left him pliant to the point of nearly insensate afterwards and Athos would do near anything to provide Aramis rest. He could discuss it with Porthos once Aramis was asleep later, they were unlikely to receive any assignment again tomorrow._

_“Every last drop. Serge’s orders.” Porthos eyed the bowl as Aramis attempted to nudge it away after only a few swallows._

_“Nope, that doesn’t work on me.”_

_Athos assumed Aramis had given Porthos some version of pleading eyes. Athos considered himself immune to all of Aramis’ contrived expressions, what felled him were the unguarded ones. In those times, when Aramis wasn’t angling for anything, he didn’t try to persuade and just allowed himself to be open Athos was moved to give him anything. Fortunately Aramis had yet to realize but Athos rather thought he wouldn’t exploit it even if he did._

_He continued to hold and tilt the bowl steadily over the next quarter of an hour before Aramis pushed the emptied bowl back to him._

_“Now the water.”_

_“Porthos!”_

_“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He had the good grace to look sheepish for a moment before finishing his apple, having already consumed his own soup. He stood up from the chair and took the emptied bowl from Athos. “Give him here.”_

_Athos smirked up at Porthos before bracing Aramis to slide from under him. Naturally his charge protested the movement._

_“I will drink more of the blasted water, I will. You don’t need to…”_

_“Easy. Easy.” Porthos held his hands up as Athos guided Aramis back down to his own left elbow. “Athos needs to eat too, you know.”_

_“Oh, I forgot you’d been,…did you eat lunch?”_

_“Aramis, I was with you, we had lunch together.” Athos reminded him gently but kept his eyes on the tray as he settled in the chair by the bed._

_Aramis bit his lip and stared at the sheet, “I thought Treville...”_

_“That was breakfast.” Porthos stated with no inflection. He cracked his back and grinned down at the dark mop of hair. “Now, you letting me in there or you wanna sleep alone tonight?”_

_Aramis laughed at the mattress quietly before he drew his head back up slowly and blinked at Porthos. His eyes floated over him for a bit before he focused enough to request, “I need a blanket.”_

_To his credit Porthos didn’t roll his eyes and wordlessly turned to locate the oft discarded pile of bedding. Athos said nothing about Aramis’ complaints of chill earlier in the evening. On his return Porthos dropped the fabric onto Aramis’ legs and helped him forwards to assist Athos in draping it while Porthos slid behind him._

_After Aramis settled, he shivered half-awake with chill while Athos finished his own meal. He batted ineffectually at Porthos’ swipes of the wetted cloths like a weak kitten. Porthos mostly ignored the movements, but he kept up a soothing chatter to try to distract him throughout his stroking. Athos poured two cups of Serge’s blackberry brandy and measured out a smaller portion in case Aramis would take it._

_“M’really cold.” He missed Porthos’ arm entirely trying to push at the forearm holding the compress to his forehead._

_Porthos ignored the twitching arm and swapped hands to press the cloth to the back of his neck. “You’re sweating.”_

_Athos rolled his eyes at Porthos and moved quietly to pass him one of the cups._

_“Is that Serge’s brandy?” Aramis’ shivers didn’t subside, but he tracked the motion over his head._

_“Yes.” Athos crouched down in front of him with both remaining cups. “Hold it to your throat for a bit before swallowing.” He guided the cup over and arched an eyebrow when Aramis tried to take it. The pause took long enough that Aramis focused on his own shaking hand and thought better of it. He converted the motion to be a wave towards him and leaned forward to snag the edge of the proffered cup._

_He winked at Athos. He also took his time to swallow. “Not as good, but let’s not mention that to Serge.”_

_“What aren’t we mentioning to Serge?”_

_“Captain!”_

_Aramis glared at Porthos as his surprised jolt nearly dislodged him from his perch._

_“Sorry, sorry.” He patted the cloth back down on Aramis’ neck._

_This in turn caused Aramis to swat behind himself which meant rotating his injured shoulder and set his pains alight._

_“For God’s sake! Enough with the cloth!” Aramis unintentionally jerked himself from it as he nearly buried his nose in the bedding to cringe from the burn in his wound. It had been left unstitched to drain and the raw skin was ripping open from minute tears along the healing sections._

_Porthos looked distraught as the strong bellow dwindled to a plaintive hiss._

_“Easy, Aramis.” Treville eased next to Athos to brace the injured shoulder, Aramis’ other arm still held round Porthos’ waist. He moved one hand off to press away the sweaty locks and feel the skin beneath. “He’s burning.”_

_Treville swiveled his head between the two without letting go of Aramis._

_Porthos just waved the dampened cloth and shook his head._

_“Aramis?” Treville tilted down to try to catch the man’s eyes. “Back upright, son. Come on.”_

_Instead of upwards he rested his forehead on the bedframe as he whispered. “Dizzy.”_

_Between Porthos and Treville they managed to shift him without reigniting the injury._

_“The Armagnac…” Aramis kept his eyes scrunched but settled his head under Porthos’ chin._

_“Is very good, yes. But not what you need right now.” Treville reached for the pitcher and poured out a cup. “Here.”_

_“M’not thirsty.” He hadn’t opened his eyes, but clearly gleaned it was the water from the sounds. “Dizzy.”_

_“Aramis.”_

_There were many tones and pitches to a person’s voice. That particular note to Treville’s was one Aramis worked to never disappoint. And it was work because it often accompanied or attached to something Aramis would struggle to see through._

_His eyes slitted back open with a long rush of breath. He did reach for the cup._

_Porthos braced it from the bottom so he could drink despite the trembling fingers._

_Aramis’ reward was a smile from the Captain and another brush to his brow._

_“I’ll see you in the morning, with the physician. Goodnight, Aramis.”_

_“Night, Captain.”_

_“See he finishes that and another, at least, Porthos. Goodnight.”_

_“Yes, sir.” Porthos grinned even as Aramis groaned._

_In the meantime Athos had stacked the tray and cleared the remnants of their dinner. He was moving to gather the nearly empty bucket by the bed they’d used for replenishing the bowl on the nightstand._

_“I’ll take that, get the tray.”_

_Athos inclined his head to Porthos as he followed Treville out._

_Porthos caught the cup when a jolting shiver knocked it out of Aramis’ thin grip._

_“Gonna take more than that to get out of it.” He chuckled._

_Aramis didn’t reply. Just pulled in tighter with his left arm to Porthos’ back and grabbed for the blanket. His whole frame was vibrating with his chills._

_Porthos dropped one arm to his hip to try to steady him and used the other to bring the cup back to his mouth._

_“Captain’s orders.” He squeezed the hand on his hip. “You don’t want me to get in trouble do you?”_

_“That’s hardly fair…”_

_“Not interested in fair when it’s your health.”_

_“Porthos...”_

_“Aramis…”_

_“M’not thirsty.”_

_“You’ve got to drink it anyway.”_

_“I’m freezing.”_

_“It might help.”_

_“It won’t.”_

_“You could try?”_

_“I want another blanket.”_

_“Have the water first, then we’ll see.”_

_“I’ll only need the chamber pot.”_

_“So we’ll deal with that.”_

_“I am cold.”_

_“Just a little more?”_

_“And a whole cup after?”_

_“We’ll take a break.”_

_“Or just forget it?”_

_“We will not be forgetting it. Now do you actually need another blanket or are you just attempting to forestall the inevitable?” Athos addressed him mildly as he changed over the water in the bowl and rested the bucket next to the bedside table._

_“I don’t feel well.”_

_“Yes, obviously.” He crouched down and motioned to Porthos for the cup. “Which is why we’re trying to help you.” Porthos eyed him with trepidation but didn’t hesitate to pass the task or the cup over._

_“Now,” Athos surveyed the contents, “just one more sip and we’ll take that break.”_

_Athos had infinite patience when one of them was sick. It was remarkable considering how other times he was a moment from wanting to throttle one of them. Well, Aramis mainly. Porthos when he vexed you was often endearing if a bit frustrating while Aramis managed to be equally endearing and frustrating while simultaneously infuriating past reason._

_Nonetheless the pale man nestled in his brother’s arms required patience and he’d have it. “Aramis.”_

_“Really?” Aramis hated that tone. “You too?”_

_Athos just shrugged his confusion at Porthos when Aramis bent to take the last swallow in the cup._

_“There, finished.” Aramis closed his eyes and flung the blanket back._

_“You don’t want another blanket then?”_

_“No.”_

_Porthos chuckled quietly and pursed his lips._

_“Stop moving, it hurts.”_

_He stilled instantly and smoothed his hand through Aramis’ hair. “Sorry.”_

_“S’ok.”_

_Athos reminded himself to have patience as he dunked a dry cloth to the refreshed bowl. He dabbed the sticky drain off and blood around the agitated cut. The expected cry was stifled by Porthos’ shirt sleeve, fortunately Aramis merely bit the linen and not the arm closely bracing him. After a few strained minutes that saw Porthos tangling his limbs with Aramis to keep him still Athos dropped the stained cloth to the growing discard pile on the floor._

_He passed a fresh compress to Porthos who held it to the heated brow. "Better?”_

_“Mmmhmm.”_

_“Another?”_

_“Please.”_

_Athos dutifully soaked a second cloth and gently laid it on Aramis’ neck. They cradled his head between the two cloths they held while their brother drifted. It wasn’t long before the blanket twisted when Aramis shifted his legs._

_“So much for that break.”_

_“I did warn you.”_

_“You did.” Porthos removed the cloth and Athos took them both away as he shifted back._

_“Right. Up you get.”_

_“I can do it.”_

_“Yeah? Cause this isn’t exactly spilling the broth. You knock it over and you’re cleaning it up.”_

_Athos set the cloths to the bedside table and turned to move the other table back to its initial place while Porthos helped Aramis teeter to his feet. By the time they’d all resettled – relief and ablutions taken care of – Aramis was pale and shivering again._

_“Time for that other cup, I think.” Porthos tucked the blanket back on Aramis’ waist._

_“You must be joking.” Aramis made to push himself back up, but Porthos held him encircled. “I’ll only have to use the pot again.”_

_If Aramis thought that was going to entice a bargain he was mistaken. “Yep. Generally how it works.”_

_Athos poured out another cup and held it out to them. Aramis tucked his hand under the blanket. Porthos took the cup. He pondered another type of bargain._

_“Aramis?”_

_“I will, in a bit.”_

_Athos smiled. “Aramis?”_

_The man in question scrubbed his beard against Porthos’ shirt as if he could burrow himself away._

_“Do you have a preference of reading material?”_

_Aramis stilled and his eyes were trying to clear when they snapped open. His hand crept from beneath the bedding and joined Porthos’ around the cup._

_“Anything on the second shelf.”_

_“All right.” He smiled at his brother before making towards the books. “You’ll finish that.” He called out without turning back to the bed._

_Porthos met no resistance, Aramis’ hand barely guiding the cup they held, in raising it for him to drink._

_“A short story? One from The Decameron, perhaps?”_

_“Really?” Athos turned to stare at the man, thankfully, drinking his water._

_“Mmm,” Aramis winced on a swallow. “The one with the nuns and the gardener…?”_

_“Yes, you’d have surely made a fine Masetto, but such deception seems unlike you.”_

_“Fair, why deceive when you can persuade?” He winked up at Porthos before grimacing and letting his head drop back under his chin. “I always took it to mean if one is quiet and listens to a woman pleasure will abound.”_

_“C’mon, finish that.” Porthos tapped the edge of the cup._

_“And just think what you might achieve” Athos bent lower and scanned the bindings on the shelf, “if you were quiet and listened to your friends.”_

_“You know I’ve difficulty with obedience my dear friend.”_

_“They’d still be wise to bar you from any nunnery.” Athos pulled a volume towards him and flicked through the pages._

_“I might’ve made a decent priest.” He leant more weight onto Porthos and swallowed the remaining water with effort._

_“You make a better Musketeer. What else you got over there?” Porthos set the emptied cup aside and eased Aramis more securely upwards in his hold._

_“Staparola, Athos?” Aramis tried to lean forwards to view the book in his hands. “I believe Porthos would enjoy the one about the master thief.”_

_“A thief, huh?”_

_“Mmm, he’s quite skilled.” Aramis nodded sagely._

_“Any good with escaping chains?”_

_“Very clever.” Aramis frowned at him, at his beard anyway, and blamed his fevered mind for the impetus to tug it. “Now be quiet, Athos is going to tell us a story.”_

_“Perhaps the Three Brothers?” Athos mused._

_“I suppose that makes me the barber then…you’d be the blacksmith.” He patted at Porthos’ chest._

_“Who does that make you?” Porthos asked._

_“The fencing-master.” Athos carried the slim volume back with him to the chair at the bed side._

_“Naturally.” Aramis waved his hand towards what they thought was meant to be Athos’ direction._

_“It does make the most sense, Aramis.”_

_“Yes, well, looking at your beard nobody would believe you’d any skill with a blade other than your sword, hmm?”_

_“Now, now…just because he gets to be the fencing-master doesn’t mean…”_

_“He gets the house too.”_

_“There’s a house?”_

_“Yes.” Aramis yawned into his brother’s neck; his bleary eyes were not focused on either of them._

_“And he allows both of his brothers to live there.” Athos stated drily._

_“They’re buried together… in the end.” Aramis said before he might have thought about it._

_“Yeah? Well s’a long time before we need to be worrying about that.” He settled back and nodded at Athos to start reading._

_Porthos didn’t stop Aramis as he slid lower, he’d hoped the soothing narration would push him into resting. Athos continued to the end, checking the downward progress of their patient._

_“Maybe one day they’ll be telling stories of three other brothers. Yes?” Aramis had continued his slide and his drooping lids were barely allowing him to gaze up at Athos blearily. He still managed to convey enthusiasm when he pondered, “A tale of three Musketeers?”_

_Porthos stroked over the head now resting on his stomach. “Imagine that.”_

_“Yes, well. The hero of this particular vignette needs to sleep.”_

_Aramis gave Athos no reply as he’d already dropped off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little off schedule, but I am hoping the length makes up for it. And hey...it's a tale of whump within a tale of whump ;)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE  
> Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation | Sleep Deprivation

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Aramis’ dreamed memory was so real to him he half expected to awaken pressed to one of his brother’s shirts. If only it were that the only injury he had: a festered wound to his shoulder. Instead Aramis woke alone and with his stomach scraping along a saddle. In place of the leather of a brother’s trousers he was staring at Gilles’ boot already in the stirrup and the ground beyond.

“Here, tie that on.”

Aramis suspected he was not being addressed and craned his neck to try to catch Gilles’ eye, anything to communicate to the man that they needed to head for Toulouse and not some isolated cabin in the woods. He was still confused, still trying to sort if Bourdin, Boucher and Corbeau worked for Corneul or just were assigned to him. He suspected Gilles did not, otherwise the man would not have been checking over his shoulder last night to confirm he still slept. He’d also not have bothered hiding Aramis was a Musketeer. As he turned upwards it was into a dark cloth, or perhaps a light one, the cloth darkened Aramis’ vision and blocked his view of anything beyond its folded depths. Gilles’ thick fingers snagged some hair in tying it and Aramis tried again to protest his guilt, but it was no use bound as he was.

His chain was secured to the saddle girth and he could feel his bare ankles were tied with rope and tethered under as well. A curious part of him wondered if they would bother taking the boots along. Gilles did not know Aramis was destined to die at this last destination. It didn’t make much difference to Aramis’ fate, but something in him balked at the thought of dying in only ripped and ruined smallclothes.

His fatal error, it seemed, was in unknowingly confessing himself to a traitor to France.

As the horse lurched to movement, he found himself grateful for the lack of vision. The blood rush combined with the blurred terrain would undo his precarious control on his nausea. He knew the taste of laudanum, so it wasn’t that, he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d been drugged with. Perhaps a combination? He’d refused the valerian, hadn’t he? Although the doctor might have noted his reaction or maybe Pierre said something? He’d never taken it in large quantities once he’d realized his sensitivity and his brothers only made the mistake of dosing him with it once. It was likely he had been given more of it even if there were other herbs mixed in. If Corbeau had realized his reaction to it that would explain the vivid dreaming and memories he’d been pulled into.

Thinking of them now he supposed he’d never get the chance to wheedle another story out of Athos. Were that to be the case he was grateful his dream allowed him to hear the memories in his mind. The man had a gift for it, and if he was feeling particularly indulgent and had the right balance of consumption, he’d even do multiple voices. The fetid cloth prevented a smile, but it cheered Aramis nonetheless to think of the often dry voice infused with the emotion of his storytelling. 

He tried not to let his thoughts of his brothers stray towards maudlin. He’d been so blessed these years in the Musketeers regiment. As his chances of surviving dimmed and the likeliness that they’d find him diminished he was glad that there would still be three of them together. D’Artagnan would not replace him, not one of them could ever fill the void left of any of the others, but it heartened him to know he’d not leave the two alone with his death. As four they’d felt more balanced than ever but, if they were fated to be three again, they could endure without him. They were so rarely alone on missions Aramis had not really considered dying alone. All of them knew and accepted that it was possible on any assignment, but generally they were together and dying in defense of a brother of completing a mission would not be in isolation – this would be. He was entirely alone.

He tried to enshroud himself back in the happier moments, he wished the memories would carry him away again. He doubted anything Corneul intended would be pleasant and he was certain it would not be an easy death. He was just so very tired though, and his body strained over these last days, and riding thrown over a saddle for hours was further weakening.

Aramis suspected it was hours. No light filtered through the blindfold which gave him no way of tracking the time, and no real inkling of when they left camp since he’d awoken facing the ground from the saddle. It had been light out, but beyond morning he could not say. He’d grounded himself as best as he was able clinging with one hand to the girth and the other to the saddle itself. He was tempted to grab Gilles’ leg but it was pointless getting his attention with no way to communicate and would result in a kick more likely than stability.

He sent a quick prayer of gratitude when they stopped, it was becoming a losing battle against nausea and that would end him in a most undignified manner. Although he spared a thought to the fact that his death was most decidedly not going to be dignified no matter what if he was to meet it from Corneul. The ropes lashing him to the horse were cut and he was nearly doubled over sliding from the saddle in dizziness. The rope around his ankles wasn’t cut and he was already dreading the potential of being dragged when he found himself upended again. 

The uneven pressure of being over Gilles’ shoulder after the saddle for so long did nothing for his aching stomach. He was growing more concerned with the darkening bruise on his belly, more so than the cuts and now seared slice to his rib. Then again, he did not know how long he’d be alive now that they’d reached Corneul’s intended stop. He supposed cataloging his injuries mattered little, what was the point in worrying over future treatments when your body was destined to expire before they healed?

It was a wood floor. Their boots marked out progression through the cabin, which might be small because Corneul halted them soon after entering.

“Over here.” A door creaked. “Bring him down.”

And then Aramis’ entire world skewed as Gilles’ headed down uneven steps.

“Here. Knees.”

Aramis landed hard on both knees as Gilles effectively bent to drop him off his shoulder. Stone? It was fairly smooth, but uneven. Hard packed dirt perhaps? Their steps were muffled, it was not a wood floor. He swung his weight to counterbalance as he swayed waiting again for his nauseousness to subside.

“What is…” Gilles voice muffled as he presumably drifted elsewhere in the space.

“A cellar of sorts. Good place for storing and curing game.”

And that was not at all a comforting thought.

“And these are for?” Aramis heard metal clinking somewhere behind him and off to his left.

“I told you.” Corneul was approaching in front of him. “I keep it well stocked. Now come help me.”

Aramis’ hands were grabbed, and he sensed the chains and his wrists being tugged and secured. He heard creaking over his head and felt a pull taking some of the slack from them. They didn’t speak. Aramis contemplated trying for Gilles attention but robbed of his speech and sight with his limbs restricted he found himself without options. When Gilles gripped his ankles he couldn’t even muster a kick with his knees still throbbing from the drop.

“Do you want the rope slacked?”

“Not yet. I want it staying on its knees.”

“Hold there, yes like that.” Aramis felt the grip but a boot to his back rocked him forward. He hung suspended with his arms wrenched up and his full weight to his knees as Gilles’ pulled upwards holding around both ankles. If his shoulders weren’t burning and his body aching everywhere, he might have appreciated the odd sensation on weightlessness. Instead his stomach soured with anticipation and he again strained to hold off nausea. 

His anticipation was cut short with a line of fire across his soles. Feet already raw from walking unstockinged in boots and running through woods and on a picket now struck with…a switch? It felt like an uncleaned stick or thin branch. It was cutting flesh instantly, a few strikes in he could feel the blood drip onto his ankles. He didn’t bother counting, it must be past twenty, the goal was to impede his feet. Aramis didn’t speculate why. Knowing why didn’t matter. Finally his ankles were dropped. Corneul, he guessed, pushed him back while Gilles fiddled with the ropes at his feet and returned the slack between his ankles before dropping them. At least kneeling kept the soles upright.

“I’ll be up in a moment.” Aramis panted into the soaked gag, the wet fabric sticking awkwardly to his cheeks. “Leave the lantern, Gilles.”

Aramis heard the door above them shut. More of his hair pulled free as Corneul undid the knot at the back of his scalp. The lantern was close to Corneul’s shoulder as he leant down before Aramis and the closeness coupled with being blindfolded for so long threw off his perception of the space. He couldn’t make out the edges of the room in the darkness past the man’s form. It took him several moments to focus on the metal prongs in his line of sight.

“Seen one before?”

Aramis just glared.

“I’ve helped you really. You’ll want to stay on your knees. And no nodding off…”

Corneul placed the lamp out of sight and used his hair to extend his neck back and fix the prongs of the heretic’s fork in place on his chest. The fact the man had one in this room he called a cellar did not bode well for Aramis’ time here. When Corneul released him, he pushed Aramis downwards to sink the prongs before waving a leather thong.

He felt the thin leather strip weave into the cursed makeshift collar he still wore. He’d seen diagrams, heard of them, knew the Cardinal himself employed them but he’d never experienced this torment. Most of what he’d gone through these last days had been a singular experience. It wouldn’t kill him and he doubted he’d live long enough to care about the potential damage to his throat, but the pointed metal would still prevent him from resting or moving. A small part of him contemplated just jamming his head down but an equally small part fervently clung to hope that his brothers would come.

The man retrieved the lantern and held it so closely between them Corneul’s features were distorted. Aramis was not sure he imagined an unholy light in those eyes. “I said when this began, I am the master here.”

The light flickered as Corneul stood and then they were pitched in darkness as he extinguished the small lantern. Aramis heard him move away in the dark. How many others had he kept here to know its layout without sight?

Aramis drifted in and out, hours passing undistinguishable, but managed to keep his posture. He was tracking the slow bleeding at his neck and ankles when he thought he dreamed the shot firing. He knew he didn’t imagine the thunk of a body hitting the floor above. 

⚜⚜⚜⚜

It was just past noon when Treville and Fournier heard the commotion drift up from the barrack’s yard. Bourdin leaned out the window to look down before addressing Treville.

“Your men have arrived, sir.” Bourdin turned back and then moved towards Fournier with a confused expression. “Pierre is with them.”

“I thought you said he went back with Boucher and Dr. Corbeau when you separated with the prisoner?”

“He did. I can’t imagine why he’d be with the Musketeers.” Bourdin took his seat again slowly. He made to get up again soon after. “Shall I escort them up?”

There was no need as the door to Captain Fournier’s temporary office slammed to the wall. Athos strode in first with a child Treville had never seen close to his heels. D’Artagnan and Porthos bracketing him from slightly behind where Treville was seated next to Bourdin. His men were disheveled, not unusual, but the tight expressions they all wore, coupled with the indicators of a hard ride and little sleep were adding up incorrectly.

“Pierre, what are you…?”

“Forgive me, friend. A moment.” Treville turned back from interrupting Fournier. “Gentlemen, where is Aramis?”

“Bourdin! Is he here?” Pierre cried out and moved in front of Athos intent on approaching the man seated next to Treville. Both men had turned in their chairs when they were interrupted by the newly arrived Musketeers.

“Bourdin?” Porthos spared the boy a second’s glance before he was dragging the soldier from his chair. “Where is he!”

“Porthos!” Treville rose to intercept him at the same time Athos stepped forwards.

“He was taken Captain. By this man and Lieutenant Corneul.” Athos looked ready to draw but he hovered between Treville and Porthos.

“Captured as a spy, sir.” D’Artagnan added placing both hands on Pierre’s shoulders to keep him back from the scuffling men.

“What’ve you done with him!”

“It was true?” Bourdin paled from d’Artagnan’s words, but he was clearly uncomfortable with Porthos’ shaking grip. The man was nearly to his toes, boots scraping the floor as Porthos shook him by his doublet.

“Release him! Now, Porthos.” Fournier addressed the men from his chair expecting to be obeyed.

“Porthos, do as he said.” Treville was surprised to note hesitation on the order even when given by his own captain.

Athos ignored the engaged men and addressed Fournier. “Aramis has not been brought here?”

Treville looked from one of his men to the other comprehending all the words, but not quite ready to believe what he was hearing. “Porthos!”

“He’s not here. We separated. I was sent ahead.” Bourdin addressed Porthos while trying to pry the hands from his leathers. The admission, meant to calm the man, only enraged him further. Bourdin was lifted completely off his feet.

“Where is he?” Porthos hissed at the struggling soldier.

“Porthos. Release him. Now.” Treville understood. He knew how they all felt about each other and would provide leeway but edging towards insubordination and threatening another regiment’s men in front of their captain was fast approaching an irrecoverable point. Whether or not that was clear something in his tone caused Porthos to finally set Bourdin back down.

“Bourdin, sit.” Fournier still had not left his desk. “Treville, kindly get your men under control. Pierre wait outside.”

“Sir, we need the boy to remain.” Athos held out a hand to stall d’Artagnan from releasing the lad.

The Musketeers’ own captain sat back down but his expression told Athos an explanation should be the next words from his mouth.

“Bourdin has just been relaying to Treville what he already told me. The details of a spy’s capture outside Foix.” Fournier spoke calmly and looked at each of the newly arrived men in turn. “Athos, are you trying to tell us that man is Aramis?”

“Unfortunately, sir, we are certain of it.”

“What?” Treville looked more stunned than any of the men gathered had ever seen him, as though he could not make sense of what he was being told.

Athos glanced at Porthos staying him temporarily as he attempted to explain as concisely as possible. “Aramis indicated he’d uncovered something but missed our meet. We later discovered he’d been taken as a spy, mistaken for murdering a soldier named Correau, and tracked Lieutenant Corneul until this man’s horse separated from them. We came here in hopes Aramis had already been brought forth and exonerated, but it seems Corneul still has him.” 

Athos turned to Bourdin, “Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

“He was really a Musketeer?” Bourdin seemed in disbelief. Athos might have had patience for it if Aramis’ life wasn’t at stake.

Porthos had none. “Yeah. He is.” As he loomed over the seated man Fournier broke back in.

“Bourdin, you said they were only a few days behind. Where are they?”

“I don’t know Captain. Corneul was meant to question him and bring him here once the spy, um Aramis,” Porthos loomed closer and looked murderously down at him. “Once he had the names translated.”

“You thought him a Musketeer and you didn’t check? Didn’t bring him immediately here?”

“Captain Treville, he said it when he realized he’d been captured. We thought it the ramblings of a caught spy. We’d no reason to think…”

“He told you he was a Musketeer and you didn’t check with the garrison?” Fournier addressed his soldier.

“No. Strung him on a picket, right?” Porthos spoke over the captain. “Made him piss himself and hunted him through the woods like an animal.” He was practically growling.

“What!” Treville didn’t even bother to order Porthos’ looming form back from the seated man.

“That was Corneul. And we tracked down an escaped spy, it wasn’t for sport.” Bourdin insisted up at Porthos before addressing his own captain and Treville in turn. “We were woken in the middle of the night and told Correau was murdered. The killer apprehended escaping the city. We had no reason to suspect otherwise.”

He turned fully towards Fournier. “We’ve been trying to find these leaks for months, Captain. Correau was dead!”

He swung a sincere gaze to Treville, “Captain if we had any inkling the man was actually a Musketeer we would have brought him to Foix. We asked Corneul to bring him here, but he was adamant about getting him to talk first.”

“Getting revenge, you mean!”

“Wouldn’t you? Corneul went too far, but don’t stand there and tell me you would kindly escort your fellow’s killer to prison!”

Athos held pressed a hand to the bend in Porthos’ elbow. “Do you have any idea where Corneul would take him?”

“None. I’m sorry.” Athos believed the man, he looked sick at the new information. “I expected they’d be here by now, Corneul assured me he would get the man to speak and bring him here for you to question further.” He paled slightly as one did when recalling that last bit of troublesome behavior from a drunken evening. As though you remembered entirely without regret only to be caught off guard by some last bit of something you’d done and forgotten more deeply than the rest.

“What?” Porthos pressed. 

“Only, he mentioned that if he was not here in a few days’ time to assure you he’d send Gilles with an update.”

“And he ain’t here is he?”

“No.”

“Bourdin, you’ve no idea where he might be?” Fournier asked again.

“He could be anywhere along our path, he insisted we not take main roads.”

“There must be somewhere. When was he transferred to your command? Does he have family in the area?”

“He’s been assigned to me over five years, served at a number of posts before this one. A third son of a merchant family, he’s a career soldier…”

“He bought…a small cabin? I think. About three years ago. He goes there on hunting trips and for his leaves. He took Correau occasionally, but I’ve never been.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I’m sorry Captain Treville, he’s never told any of us. He’s a private man, Correau was closest to him.”

“Someone has to know!” D’Artagnan sounded as though he rejected a world in which Aramis was lost to them. He could not seem to process that finding the man now was like a needle in the proverbial haystack as represented by provincial France.

“I…” Pierre took Athos’ sleeve. “...I might. I wasn’t supposed to follow, I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t in any trouble, lad.” Fournier came round the desk and addressed the boy. “Do you remember where it is? It’s very important we find Aramis.”

Pierre leaned closer into Athos. “I think I could find it. He told me to stay with his horse, we had to stop on the way back from delivering a letter to Paquet. It wasn’t part of his assignment, so he told me not to follow. He met a lady at a small house. I know I wasn’t supposed to follow but…”

“Would you know the way back to it?” Athos crouched before Pierre. “Could you take us there?”

Pierre nodded frantically with memory. “The castle! Yes, I remember it’s near the woods outside Calmont. We went past the castle earlier that day.”

“I’ll get them to ready fresh horses.” D’Artagnan was near the door before Treville recalled him.

“We’ll leave shortly, do you have a physician here? Someone who can ride out with us?”

“The regiment’s medic will come and I’ll have some men to follow and organize a cart.”

“We can leave within the hour. You three will explain in the mess, while you eat and…”

“Papa!”

“Boucher? Dr. Corbeau?” Fournier addressed the men in the open door.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE  
> Whipped | Left for Dead  
> * warning for graphic description of whipping and potential triggers for vomiting, bodily functions  
> ** it’s an unpleasant chapter, and a long and painful whump. You’re mostly safe to read up to: “As I told the good doctor…” Please stop there or do skip this chapter entirely if any of this could upset you. Events will be referenced in future chapters in less detail so it’s not necessary to read if any of this is potentially unpleasant for you. If not, enjoy!

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“On what slender threads do life and fortune hang.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

His dreams returned and the moist air of the cellar kept him suspended between the visions shown in his reverie of memories and his reality.

He was oddly grateful he’d returned to the armory the evening Marsac was buried. He’d slunk alone through streets abandoned to the afternoon downpour. Soaked through and mourning it was one of the only times his grief kept him from seeking the solace of his brothers’ company. Aramis bore them no ill for the events unfolding as they had. He was inordinately touched d’Artagnan had covered for him, then without a commission – and jeopardizing the possibility – the man had trusted him on no more than Aramis asking for it. He held no blame for his captain and no anger with Marsac for selecting him as executioner. He was just unable to center himself enough to bear anyone’s company as twenty – now twnety-one – ghosts kept stealing into his consciousness after the Duke’s departure. The floor was cleaned, but it didn’t matter, the shadows showed him snow before stone and blood over dust.

That final rainy day had been a long one, full of concessions and acceptances. With all that had transpired Treville had forgiven him not just one but two strikes against a superior officer that should have seen him dismissed, or worse, from the regiment. He’d forgiven the man his unwinnable circumstances in Richelieu’s machinations; information could be so easily distorted to such dire purposes. Treville had found him sprawled against the column, drinking late into the night. He was still damp and his cloak draped outwards like a broken wing. The Musketeers’ Captain had carefully displaced the fabric to sit back to the adjacent side, their shoulders meeting at the corner. Aramis poured the captain a cup of his own brandy and passed it to him as Aramis swapped to pull directly from the bottle. They’d sat like that all night in a silent but shared peace.

It was a consolation for Aramis as well when, sometime after dawn, Treville let him know of a more comforting confidence the Musketeers’ Captain had with Richelieu. With the truth exposed Treville had told him of the stipend he’d forced from the Cardinal for those who’d left widows, like Mathilde, behind. Disguised as a pension they’d never know the truth of the circumstances, but there was a small compensation to be had for their tragedies.

And what was life but consolations and concessions as they all made their way to the same end. For Aramis this confession made whole his faith in his captain, it had not been lost only tested. He’d always respected offices alongside the men in them, but men needed to prove themselves worthy of the offices they had. So many people respected titles and positions before knowing those that held them, and even men worthy of ranks when given often went astray from the qualities that installed them originally. He respected Treville all the more for understanding Aramis’ doubt, it was how he’d always kept his faith in all things, remaining in inquiry, seeking truth. Ironically seeking truth was what led him to his current prison. 

The dark was unrelenting and consuming, he’d nothing to focus on when the memories released him. He was abandoned to his pain. His spine felt near splintering with the agony of keeping upright and leant to keep the metal fork from penetrating deeper to his chin and chest. The injuries flared and he disregarded them as each flitted over his mind, it didn’t matter. Aramis had no desire to give up, but he was also practical about his chances at this point. Days without food and few parts of him left unmarred in some manner; his thoughts were disordered, and his breathing so labored he found each new inhale an accomplishment. 

At least his brothers would have his things, all their weapons and supplies at Mathilde’s, they’d have recovered them by now. Athos was the far better shot, but he had a feeling the pistol would pass to Porthos – the man always did appreciate the intricacy of the inlays. His books to Athos perhaps? They’d exchanged so many between them over the years, at least a quarter of his shelf was originally Athos’ or gifted by him at some point. Two or three were even inscribed to him from his friend for some occasion or other. Maybe d’Artagnan would take his blades, certainly not his hat it would not suit his coloring at all. Again, of little import to catalog his possessions’ forward journey any more than injuries on a body unlikely to survive. Although the mental inventory was at least a moment’s diversion from his dank dwelling.

He heard two sets of boots’ muffled dance above. With no method for marking time in the impenetrable darkness he was barely able to distinguish the goings on in the so-called cabin Corneul had brought them to. He had no idea how many days it had been or where they were, only that he hoped it was not close to Toulouse or Foix. In fact, he prayed they were far from either and located somewhere uneasily discovered – he would not wish his brothers to feel any guilt over not finding them in time. They were soldiers and they well knew the unfairness and impartiality of death, but the anguish of being so close and missing the window to save a life could be unbearable despite all logic indicating the rescue having been impossible.

His selfish heart still wished for a last-minute pardon.

He’d barely recognized the thought before the heavy footfalls parted. One drifting away and one rising in volume before a creak sounded behind and somewhere above him.

Unsteady light filtered in and he assumed the lantern was in hand as the man approached. It was Corneul, the man passed his knelt form without glancing at him. With the prongs dug into him Aramis couldn’t turn to look and his eyes didn’t have the range once the officer – the traitor – moved off to his left. He heard the lantern rest on a surface, a wooden table or shelf from the sound. The noises that followed were more troubling: shifting clinks of metal, blades drawn, heavy objects being dragged over the wood, examined, and dropped back down.

With his head tipped back so far, his eyes were able to see Corneul’s shape when he was backlit by the lantern at Aramis’ side. He disappeared immediately when Aramis choked on a mangled yelp as the metal was torn free after Corneul quickly cut the thong holding it to the unyielding collar. Aramis sensed him still standing at his side despite his chin nearly touching his slick collarbone from the drop. The compression of his neck pushed more blood from the four perforations and they slowly dripped into his sight as they progressed to further stain his braies. Hardly befitting the word at this point, the fabric was alternately hanging in tatters or matted to his skin sticking to wounds and sweat.

Two gloved fingers tipped his forehead back enough for him to meet Corneul’s eyes. “And now, it’s just you and I.” Then the tips of the leather gloves dug into the holes from the prongs under his chin and he used the leverage to rotate Aramis’ head to the side. “But I won’t put you down just yet…”

Aramis’ gaze reflexively followed the motion and landed on the table on the far wall. His legs felt as though they were liquefying. Many of the terrible items he knew, others he recognized but had never seen in person and still other bits and weapons were unknown to him. In all this time he’d wanted to wretch tasting the gag, now he was grateful it stoppered the sounds he was helpless to withhold on his own.

He did need to remind his confused self that he needed to breathe calmly. The soaked fabric cloying over his tongue inhibited his breathing enough that his reflexes were fighting their natural motions. Looking at the assortment of devices on that wall and table his resolve to bravely meet his end wavered. Several metal pincers, a stiletto, there were short whips, knotted ropes, and what looked like tails from a martinet amid the piles of instruments. The man could mutilate him any number of ways, and down here in the dark he could be kept alive hinged between life and death for a long stretch. He tried to remember how long it took a man to starve, it was beginning to look preferable. He was more delusional than he’d suspected if he were thinking Corneul would allow such a tranquil end.

His view of the options for his impending torment was blocked suddenly when wrinkled parchment was suspended just before his nose.

“Care to speak? Tell me what you found?”

Aramis stared, attempting to make out his inked codes. His vision split and centered so quickly, toggling over and over it was not possible to discern letters from the moving shapes. His brothers would figure it out without his efforts. That he was missing at all would be enough, they’d unravel the rest. Eventually.

“I’ll admit, when Correau told me of a sniffing infiltrator I was surprised.”

Aramis was overcome with dizziness despite the gradual turning of his head back to front facing.

“We’d been so careful, years unnoticed.”

That was troubling. A year, at most, was the estimate. They knew it had been some time, but years was more than they anticipated. 

“And then Correau came to me to report a mangy little mutt playing with a horse all day long. Panting round the taverns, humping at the bar maids, pestering our contacts for attention.”

Aramis was sick of the canine metaphors. The traitorous man would be wise to leave his mouth restrained.

“I hadn’t expected that it would be the Musketeers. Though it makes sense Fournier would seek Treville’s help. The Chateau really is too much for the man in his old age. Too many officers, too many soldiers, guards, prisoners, people…”

Aramis happened to like Fournier. He couldn’t recall the prison’s supervising officer at present, but most of the officers he’d met during past visits there were competent. And the receptions held over the years, he’d hoped they’d be introducing d’Artangan to them after the successful conclusion of their errands. It was a shame he’d not met Corneul before and taken his measure, then again it might have only hastened his capture. 

“Shall you speak? Or shall we play with some of the toys?”

Aramis heard the tinkling on glass before the pitches of the echoing murmurs filled his ears. The torchlights had lit the first few bottles thrown and without any cover to his eyes Aramis tracked them without thought, shattering glass glinting in a mini-firework after each shot. The men gathered whistled and jeered, ramping their dares, Porthos good naturedly soliciting wagers and escalating the difficulty. Longer-serving soldiers kept silent, letting the newer men argue and over bet, knowing any difficulty proposed was more entertainment to the two musketeers than a challenge. 

Porthos delighted in showing off Aramis’ skills and Aramis delighted in showmanship, he preened for the betting men distractedly reloading as he awaited the next test. The Chateau was always keen to host the Musketeers’ regiment in small numbers or large force. The impromptu contest had started around sunset, men lingering about – dares had been issued and met, multiple men trading barbs and exchanging targets. As the skills required rose with each new task the comers to meet them slowly lessened until finally the crowd was throwing out suggestions to only Aramis. Porthos acted as mediator while Athos lounged on the edge of the crowd amused more than he’d ever confess at their antics.

The coup de grâce was the melon shot. Athos had contributed to the festive feint by steadily passing Porthos alcohol between sets of betting all evening. With the remnants of Aramis’ display littering the yard the men were primed for it. The switch was irresistible to the men, having lost money to Aramis’ inconceivable skill, and the temptation of an openly drinking Porthos claiming such a shot was resisted by few. Men parted for Aramis as he strode to the wall cradling the lumpy sphere and he lounged with unbelievable ease against the stone.

He could almost imagine the dripping through his hair was merely juice from the melon, but the stench rising in the room curdled any recalled sweetness.

“None of that, I want your attention, mutt.” Corneul reached down to push his fingers into the bleeding holes near his clavicle. Once the leather tips caught, he tugged at the edges. Aramis choked on the gag and his own sharp inhale. “We now know what will get you to sit nicely. Except I think you’d best come up for this next bit…”

Corneul walked behind him and in moments Aramis’ arms were hauled up. As his weight moved to hang on his shoulders, the winches continued to pull him to straightening. He tried to curl his feet to keep them off the dirt covered floor, but the bending flesh only ignited the many open slashes in the thin skin, the tops of them skidded on the stones. The traitor stopped when his toenails were scratching for purchase. The ceiling was low enough that he wouldn’t be dropped, not enough room to replicate a strappado then, but it didn’t mean this wouldn’t dislocate his shoulders eventually.

“To be expected.” The man could tell his silence owed nothing to the fabric inhibiting his lips, Aramis would tell this traitor nothing.

“You’ve been rather disobedient all along.” With the man behind him his voice seemed to drift all around and it unnerved Aramis further. He felt himself unraveling, longing to slide back into the vivid memories that kept wandering into his broken thoughts. If he couldn’t see them a final time in person he’d gladly accept their shadows ushering him to his final rest. The cruel nature of the delusions held and none came forward to pull him back from the devising of his tormentor. He was more disconcerted when he tracked the man moving back to the table. Aramis resisted turning to see what was selected. It meant nothing. His life was forfeit, possibly after only days into arriving in Foix.

“As I told the good doctor, one should beat a disobedient dog…”

The first fall of lashes landed across both calves. Corneul got the bonus of creating new cuts to relatively unmarked skin while reflex curved his feet into pulling the existing slices on the soles. It was a strange sensation, the flesh tender, a part of the body normally covered in layers and unlikely to be struck as first choice. In his trials of late they’d been mostly protected by the boots or left alone in favor of better targets. The thickened cords landed in tandem overlaying several strikes at once, each single hit delivering multiple stripes. The sting was unbearable and like the belt so many days ago Corneul was wild in ferocity, aiming little beyond the general area of the body he wished to strike.

Instinctually he pulled on his arms to try to move his legs from the bite of the cords. His flexing feet found ground momentarily, but only slipped on the blood they were spreading below him. It hurt more than he’d believed possible, a sting like needles over pulled skin. Entirely different to the prickling of a needle digging in repair of flesh this bit like the initial insert of a needle but burned, then throbbed, then left an unbearable heat behind. The force Corneul was throwing into each blow layered pain over pain, the sensation never abating, no time for it to subside before the next battering of lashes.

His eyes stung on a sharp drag of air through his nose. He’d pulled and lengthened his body enough to touch ground but the stretch left him teetering with the blows. Aramis had no clue as to the number, but he knew there were enough overlayed now that some were bleeding. The rope between his legs didn’t provide enough slack to try to separate so Corneul would only catch one and he stopped moving them once the tips caught at the more senstivie insides of his calf muscles. Just as his calves were numbing to the burn the cords caught the back of his thigh.

Left leg. He hoped Corneul stayed to the back. His abysmal luck remained, the next strike caught the back of the thigh, and the force and angle sent the ends directly onto the bolt wound. The tears seemed to have formed and leaked from the corners of his eyes simultaneously.

There was not a single memory coming forward to drift with. Not a passing thought was forming for him to grasp, his focus narrowed to unceasing sensation. He found the rotten gag once more credited with aid as it kept him from biting at his tongue.

His legs shook as he clenched his thigh muscles, it hardly abated the pain and he had no conscious control of the effort. His right thigh spasmed when Corneul switched to a forehanded swing, but it spared the burnt wound on his left. He rocked more weight onto his wrists, trying fruitlessly to steady his legs. The flimsy smalls offered little protection and he could perceive no difference in the severity of the hits to his calves versus his thighs. Some swung to just his right and then across both, but he did eventually mark that the open holes in the fabric made the cords slightly sharper on his skin. He supposed his mind wasn’t to be trusted comparing clothed flesh to bare flesh. It was all blurred levels of pain from his thighs to the tips of his toes.

Aramis was no longer in control of the motions of his body, his limbs seemed to impulsively select his next movements. He’d just relieved some of the pressure to his wrists with some further stretching of his legs when Corneul changed his target. Aramis was unsure if it was tears or sweat sliding to his beard as the indignity of the strike across his buttocks flashed his vision white. It was a conscious choice to jerk his weight onto the suspended cuffs and kick backwards at the man. Unfortunately, his flailing legs met air and resulted in a burst of successive back and forehanded hits crisscrossing his rear in return. He managed not to cry out but the sweat dripping into his eyes triggered tears to spill over in his silence. 

There was little aim beyond the area he selected, and the man had no discernable pace for how long he spent on one section of the body. Aramis sagged when the tails withdrew with no follow-up and the long pause was only interrupted with his ragged breathing. The tingling confused his mind as he was making sense of the respite, the nerves unsure like when water was so hot if felt cold for a moment before scalding the skin.

His watery vision was darkening but before he could follow it to oblivion it was as though lightning flashed in the cellar. He clamped his lids shut as the martinet moved in endless patterns over his back. His ribs felt as though they were on the outside as they strained for air and his chest compressed in unnatural rhythms.

The tears had clogged his sinuses and with his mouth blocked his vision began to grey once more. The lantern light wavered in dizzying flickers as his head spun from lack of air. He hoped he’d pass out from the lack of breath, the slick catching of the cords on the last few lashes painted the sweat and blood over his back, and he feared he’d scream within moments. 

His mouth did fill. But his cheeks were pushed out from saliva pouring in reverse to the sides of his mouth heralding a greater flood. His nose leaked as his stomach heaved and before he could jerk in his bonds his throat spasmed in the wrong direction and his mouth was filled and pushing at the gag. He refused to be grateful to the traitor, but Corneul at least had the sense to untie the cloth and the force of the spewing liquid drove it out of Aramis’ mouth.

He hacked and coughed to clear his raw throat as mostly bile splashed to the floor. He’d sucked out and swallowed so much filth from the gag over the hours trapped by the fork he supposed his body produced enough saliva on instinct that it triggered this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given broth so there wasn’t much else to bring up. Involuntary tears that owed nothing to the pain he was in tracked over his cheeks. He spit several times to remove the foul taste before swallowing to hold back the lurching in his stomach.

Conreul came round to the front of him and met his gaze with disgust as though he wasn’t the cause of all of this.

“Filthy mongrel.”

The traitor swung heavily into Aramis’ face, his fist connecting above his left eye. He flipped his grip on the wooden handle of the martinet and slammed it into the side of Aramis’ scalp before swinging it back and catching him along the bridge of his nose and into his brow. He struck again to one side, swinging back on the momentum to catch the other side of his face. Aramis just let his head absorb the blows, there was no escaping them.

He was alone in this. His impetus to hang on waning and he longed for the rest of unconsciousness. He did not black out, but Corneul did walk off. Or he thought he did, his left eye was nearly closed from the blows of the handle.

“Still don’t feel like speaking?” The man taunted from the edge of his vision, moving behind him again based on the sounds.

It was a solitary lash this time. Rather than the flogging of multiple strips it was one sharp slice. A knotted cord, catching along already open lashes and driving new ones into his skin. As before Corneul’s rage directed the strikes in uneven motions over his back, some catching under his arms and along his ribs. With the gag gone and his will declining he wasn’t surprised to hear screams. The lack of precision was overcompensated with anger and there was even less care put into the landing of the single lash. Some macabre part of his soul flashed him visions of a flayed back and was glad he’d be spared having to hide this shame from future lovers. He knew the sensation of the hurt and the reality of the damage were often separated by a wide margin, but the longer this went on the more he feared a ruined back.

As his lungs failed to take air he felt as though they were being touched with each strike. The irrational sensation supported when a few ill-fated blows caught round to his chest and others his stomach. It was after one caught his belly that he tilted his pelvis sharply in counter and to his mortification his bladder released. As with his stomach the contents were meager, but enough to add to the muddled fluids spreading on the floor. If Corneul noticed, he gave no mind to it and continued the whip’s attack haphazardly. Aramis’ cry might have been a scream, but his frustration saw it converted to sound closer to a whimper.

He was too consumed with life to contemplate his death overmuch but when he did reflect these were never the circumstances he imagined. Dying was rarely a clean affair, bodies gave up messily in means most never thought of. His disjointed mind offered no escape, no memories arose to soothe him, and nothing distracted him from the creeping approach of his mortality.

He was alone. Alone in little better than a pit. 

He clenched his teeth to stop another cry and sucked back a wet breath. The words burst forth despite his jaw’s trouble shaping them.

“I’ll tell you…”

Aramis felt the air displace near his right hip as the lash swung out away from him.

“I’ll…tell you the names…”

Aramis heard his boots drag as the man moved around him, avoiding the mess on the ground before him. He looked down at the floor and nearly snarled at Aramis. “I ought to put your face to it.”

Aramis said nothing, merely sucked in as much air as he was able.

Corneul towered before him indulgent with his superiority. His disdainful countenance was sheened with sweat and spatters of Aramis’ own blood sprayed back from his spastic lashing. “Go on then, which names have you uncovered?”

“Athos.”

“And Porthos.”

“And d’Artagnan!”

His voice had grown stronger, each name resounding through the space like a prayer begged by a desperate penitent. This awful pit was no chapel, but to Aramis they were hallelujahs to wrap himself with. Names that drew forth the memories he sought, names of men that had always lent him strength and he them, names to fortify him to see his ending as bravely as he could. His lungs exhausted and his back wet with newly leaking blood as he stretched the lacerations with his breath. He dropped his voice to a forceful whisper.

“Those are the only names you need. The names you should fear. They are going to find you; they’ll track you to the gates of hell and help you through them!”

Aramis knew it wasn’t a threat, not just something he said to comfort himself so close to death, it was a vow. He believed through to his soul that his brothers would avenge him. His resolve gave Corneul pause, his eyes pinched with uncertainty, but it was shook off with a sneer.

“They’ll never find you.”

He swallowed thickly; his wheezing now strong enough to dry his mouth on nearly every breath. “They’ll find you.”

“As an unlucky warden. And they’ll only know the tragedy that was your mistaken identity. Shot escaping, when you ran, after you killed Gilles. It’ll be Gilles’ corpse that needs transport. No choice but to leave you to rot in the woods.”

Irrational fear overtook him as bodies left to decay flashed behind his eyes. Fate weaving a wicked snare for having escaped such a grave once already? He forced himself to focus. So, he had heard a shot, that was the thunk – a fallen body. Hadn’t he also heard multiple boots walking earlier? He couldn’t tell, maybe he misheard. It was all part of Corneul’s protective measures to remain a soldier and continue his deception. A traitor hidden amongst one of the strongest garrison’s in France. His brothers would never believe he shot the man, they’d know he wouldn’t kill a French soldier if he had any other options. If it were in his power he'd spare them finding him, but even d'Artagnan had experienced stumbling through a wooded entombment of cruelly discarded musketeers. Even though it would be Aramis this time, they would survive it - they'd be together. 

His head propped up by the wood handle Aramis didn’t see Corneul snake his hand under his chin. The only forewarning to his air being stifled was the rough leather clawing at the hated collar. “Maybe the crows will leave enough of you for your brethren to bury.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS   
> Disorientation | Blurred Vision

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“I know that I have been a fool, a madman, to believe that the snow could have been animated, that the marble could grow warm; but what would you expect? The lover easily believes in love, nor has my journey been entirely in vain, since I behold you now.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The lantern was gone.

Conreul left him alone.

To die?

Was he coming back?

Aramis couldn’t remember.

No more memories had come to him.

He heard the footfalls moving about overhead.

Everything was muffled.

He could feel his body numbing.

His mind was clear enough to know that was probably not Athos approaching with a light.

It was not Porthos’ blurred shape in the corner rifling through the tables contents.

D’Artagnan crouched next to him, but Aramis couldn’t parse out the words.

Were they here?

It was so dark. The keen loneliness of a prisoner, the wearying weight of isolation, he never did well entirely alone. He wanted so much to speak with them even if he was to die. Even if it were too late to come back from this. He pushed his jaw to mouth the words.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

It was Treville who spoke first, having rushed down the uneven stairs when Porthos leveraged the barricaded floor hatch open. “My God, is he…?”

He cut off as though even speaking it would make the possibility real, and waved d’Artagnan closer with the lantern he held. He passed the light to the younger man, but still hadn’t stepped forward.

The body suspended in the dark hole of a room was nearly naked with how little remained untorn of the formerly white braies. There was more blood than skin visible to them on most of the limbs and flesh that was displayed. The skin they could see was light and his body wasn’t moving. Blood still slid from several of the opened lines unevenly landed across his back. They were haphazardly cut into him in every angle and length from shoulder to ankle. Some cut higher into his arms likely having caught the tip of the wild swings. 

Aramis hung so pale and still in the meager light that they all stood suspended in the cramped spaced. A low burst of muffled utterings were incomprehensible initially but moved them to action. Porthos and Athos shoved further into the dark.

Athos reached him first, but it was Porthos who made it round to his front when Athos hesitated listening to the soft ramblings.

“No.” Porthos looked so relieved Treville feared the man might collapse with it. “No, he’s…”

Athos leaned closer, “He’s delirious.”

“…I really thought I’d make it, hoped I would…” Aramis didn’t acknowledge them, just kept muttering, and he shifted his head as though speaking to multiple persons unseen.

“…I promise…I tried.” His left eye was so swollen and encrusted with blood and filth that Porthos doubted he could open it. The other eye was a slit, lashes fluttering and what he could make out of the sliver of the right eye was completely unfocused. Whatever Aramis saw when his gaze stopped moving it was not the men surrounding him.

“…I thought we’d…”

“Careful, mind his back if you can. Porthos take his weight. Athos take his right,” Treville directed as he moved to support Aramis on the left. “D’Artagnan bring the light closer.”

“No…you, phony bastard.” Aramis struggled, that was overgenerous, he moved weakly against the arms slipping under his own to try to take his weight. Any movement in his condition had to be wracking him with pain, but his desperation seemed to override any sense. “You False Porthos! I don’t want to see you! I want to see…”

 _‘False Porthos?’_ Treville mouthed.

The actual Porthos just shook his head. Aramis was right in front of them. They had him back and he could call Porthos anything he wished.

“Wait!” They were all so mindful of the potential to injure him further his random order was obeyed before they realized he was still mired in his imaginings.

“…no, you’re dead…he’s killed you…”

Aramis bore his own weight downwards, only drawing out fresh drips to the thick mess around his wrists. Whoever he thought he was seeing it was overlaying on reality and he did not seem to comprehend he’d been found. 

“I want to see...I...God…no...Athos?”

He turned his head again and stared over Porthos’ shoulder. The tiny slit of eye focusing well past his friend. 

“Porthos, please…” The sound so plaintive, d’Artagnan looked up at Athos pleadingly, willing him to resolve this faster.

“…I cannot…” He swallowed thickly and whispered towards a dark corner as though he were talking to Porthos. They supposed he was, just not to the actual Porthos in front of him. He angled his chin, dipping the slitted gaze lower.

“…do not tell anyone, Porthos, but the shackles are stuck…” He might’ve been sitting in a tavern for the conspiratorial comment if it was not missing his casualness and cheer at sharing a secret with one of his friends.

His barely opened eye drooped with his chin, “I couldn’t…”

“Aramis?” Athos called softly. He rubbed his fingers along the overstretched bicep, trying to soothe him, to ground him from wherever and whatever his delirium was showing him. He continued to help Treville with the winches attaching the shackles overhead.

“Little Athos?” Aramis blinked his right lid dazedly at the man at his side. “How did you get so tall?” He sounded so astonished they all knew he was lost to his own mind’s conjuring. He was seeing a bit it seemed, perhaps, to make the connection. Or overlaying his hazy perceptions of them with the shadows his mind provided.

“You would like Athos, I am sure of it…his wit is…such a sharp mind, and he is…a wonderful confidante…I think he’ll miss me too…”

“Aramis, we’re right here.” Porthos tried as Aramis nuzzled at his shoulder, he sniffled on the leather, but he lifted his head and drifted off again.

“…so earnest, like you…you…I am going to tell Athos he must have a Pierre, Pierre.”

He moved his head to nod in emphasis of his decision, but it only served to irritate numerous injuries. His pained confusion gave way to an exhausted sigh, the tiniest hint of bemusement tugging the corner of his mouth.

“D’Artangan’s too old to be a Pierre.” He tucked his head to Porthos’ collarbone, but they still heard him clearly. “He could have a bunch with Constance, though…imagine that…” They let him ramble as they continued efforts to free him with minimal hurt caused.

“He’s a good Musketeer…have I told him that? He needs to…he must know that...” He trailed off letting a whimper escape as d’Artagnan worked the blood-stained roped at his ankles. D’Artagnan was moving slowly so as not to disturb the torn up feet, but there was so much blood and dirt he wasn’t sure if it would be better to just cut the ropes in one go or continue agitating the torn flesh to unwind it.

“I still don’t know the ingredients… something is missing. Is it chervil, do you think? I haven’t tried that yet…” He sounded surprised, as though he hadn’t considered the possibility before…casually addressing phantoms in the dark.

“…the portions are still off...”

D’Artagnan rose from his crouch having finally cast the ropes off Aramis’ legs. His hands hovered outside Aramis’ hips looking like he wanted to cradle them if he didn’t fear causing him further hurts.

“…‘m getting closer though…I should…” 

“Aramis. Peace, son.” Treville and Athos guided Aramis down, d’Artagnan guarding closely should he slip backwards.

“Captain...?” Aramis’ voice was muffled now, but intense like a child straining to ask one more question before bed. They leaned him forwards into Porthos’ support.

“....never thanked you, have I? There is so much, there has been…so much…I never…the apple brandy, and you are…you are…” Aramis seemed to have confused himself, further they supposed.

He tried to raise his head to gaze above himself, but again his numerous injuries dragged him to stillness. “…I made a decent Musketeer…I think…they’re her hands, you know…do you think she’ll be angry I’d killed with them…?”

“Hush, Aramis.” Athos whispered, “We have you.”

“…I wish I’d gotten to see you all…” The regret in his voice was thickened with the distinct sound of a man straining to withhold tears.

They had him down, nearly his entire weight onto Porthos. They’d get him above ground and tend the worst of his wounds to prep him for travel. Their efforts jostled him as little as possible, Treville and Athos working seamlessly to balance him in a smooth descent, but his unfocused senses must have still registered the shift.

“Wait. Don’t leave,…please!” He didn’t struggle, but his barely open eye was rapidly swinging to things unseen in the dark. “Please? Don’t. I haven’t…Porthos?” He pushed at the neck before him breathing deeply, “…I do not think I…even have the words to say…how…”

“Shhh” Porthos carded a hand through his hair, dropping a kiss to the heavily matted locks.

“Just shush.” He wasn’t sure if Aramis realized he was being held, or even knew that it was him. Porthos turned his head into Aramis’ cheek, breathing against him, “This is just like you, ain’t it? Running about with your trousers down and leaving it to us to chase after you.”

And if Aramis’ laugh sounded more like a sob not one of them could claim clear eyes himself.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE?  
> Exhaustion

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Nothing makes time pass or shortens the way like a thought that absorbs in itself all the faculties of the one who is thinking. External existence is then like a sleep of which this thought is the dream. Under its influence, time has no more measure, space has no more distance.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos’ hands stroked the scalp in them, minutely shifting through the damp hair as he held Aramis’ head while the doctor checked over the wounds again. In the humid air the thick strands were taking longer to dry, but the edges were beginning to puff out and curl. Porthos frowned as the pads of his fingertips caught along a healing cut buried in the dark waves. There was not a part of the man that didn’t have a cut, scrape, tear, scar, burn, bruise, or combination of them in varying stages of discoloration or healing or open bleeding.

They’d lain him half on his right-side and stomach, in an odd arrangement of limbs to alleviate pressure on the worst spots, and alternately shifted the unconscious man to access wounds open to the air as well as bandaged sections. The cart had been prepared with a mattress pad taken from the garrison in anticipation of transporting a heavily injured Aramis and they’d added every linen in the cabin to the makeshift nest. Porthos braced against the wood planks behind the driver’s bench to keep his cross-legged pillow steady for the sleeping musketeer.

He tensed his fingers to cradle the scalp as the cart shuddered over a rut.

The canvas covering the cart, intended mainly to protect munitions and supplies, framed a narrow view of the men behind them. Thick fog had surrounded the cabin that morning as they departed for Foix and continued accompanying their weary procession. Corbeau and the medic from Toulouse’s garrison – Gauthier, maybe Godier, Porthos couldn’t recall – worked well past midnight to sew and bandage his barely conscious brother. 

The upper floor of the cabin had been all one room – a blessing as nothing would have moved them from their brother’s side – but the physicians did need space to lance and redress the semi-healed or dirt encrusted injuries neither man had liked the look of. The captains and soldiers accompanying them remained outside – mostly – Treville came inside to trade updates with them over the proceedings and relayed information back to the camping men in front of the cabin. Between the interrogation outside the structure and the treatment supervised within none had gotten any real rest overnight.

Porthos had taken up a similar position then as now, except he’d been to the side at the bed’s head. Athos had hovered should he be needed and assisted immediately when asked, but otherwise kept back from cramping the small space. D’Artagnan had used his energy and long limbs to retrieve and heat the needed water while Pierre weaved around the men’s bulk to fetch and pass requested materials.

Porthos aided the men working by maneuvering Aramis as needed but mainly kept up a steady retelling of their travels to find him. When he exhausted details of their frantic search Porthos retold some of their previous exploits, asking the scarcely aware man if he remembered those events. He’d not stopped trying to engage their brother when he seemed to penetrate Aramis’ interminable muttering in the cellar after they’d gotten him down from his bindings. Porthos’ hands had shook like they had when he was a child first learning except now they were slipping along thin wrists in the congealing mess under the cuffs as they finally released.

With no idea if the man heard what he was saying he figured it was better to attempt to ground the man than leave him alone to his ramblings. Even if Aramis could not decipher the actual words spoken to him Porthos had hoped he might at least ease from the familiar voice. As Porthos continued to speak over the afternoon and into evening at him, Aramis quieted. The doctor and medic worked near inaudibly, their voices hushed and intermittent under Porthos’ even rumble.

He would have spoken himself hoarse if it provided even minor comfort, and he’d give up his speech entirely if it meant his brother would live. His mutterings tapered off as the men cleaned and sewed some of the deeper wounds, but the verbal attempts turned to whiffles that reminded him of a dreaming pup. Porthos switched his position again and leaned closer to whisper in counter to the keening breaths as they increased in pitch and length. Still, Aramis did not rouse. Fortunately, though it seemed hours, Aramis had stopped reacting to their ministrations and dropped off to an exhausted sleep but neither tending man could guarantee his survival. It was only that fear of leaving Aramis’ side that prevented Porthos seeking revenge on the two spies they’d taken prisoner outside. 

Only one of the two spies tied to the horses following the cart were responsible for the state of the man in it. The former Lieutenant’s wound had been crudely seen to before they left, but his shirt still bore his own blood from the gunshot. Porthos was satiated for the moment with having fired the inlaid pistol that tore through the man’s shoulder when they’d come upon the men outside the small building. He’d have preferred it was his neck, but then he’d have deprived them all of opportunity to question him at the Chateau. D’Artagnan at least got the head start at seeing to their prisoner as Treville and Fournier allowed him to attach Corneul’s chains to his own mount. They'd not been cleaned of the blood from their prior use beforehand.

Athos kept moving between them all, angling through the fog and the horses to converse with the captains, the soldiers and d’Artagnan. He switched between riding near the cart and the column of soldiers to check Aramis’ condition and update Porthos.

The man with Corneul had confessed to nothing the prior evening. He still maintained he’d come upon Gilles and Corneul by happenstance, hunting in the woods, lost from his journey between cities, his horse threw him. It all held little meaning once d’Artagnan identified him as the man who stole from him in Vernajoul. Once they reached Foix they’d have the truth of all events. Gilles had filled in where Bourdin’s narration ended and the rest was read easily enough over their brother’s skin. Porthos catalogued it all when Treville reported it back to them, as he’d observed the seeping lash marks, the mottled scab over a cauterized thigh, the near-black bruising on a belly interspersed with slashes of healing cuts. 

D’Artagnan could have that one, Porthos would keep plenty occupied helping retrieve information from the disgraced Corneul. He was planning a chat with Gilles too, but he’d let the man recover from the gunshot to the leg and the graze to the arm Corneul’d managed on their arrival to the cabin. Gilles swayed atop his horse as Porthos’ eyes drifted over him behind d’Artagnan and his charge. In between Bourdin trailed d’Artagnan with his foiled thief in tow and Boucher was alternating between minding Gilles’ balance and eyeing the prisoners. Athos swung up next to d’Artagnan on his return from Porthos’ update moments ago.

With the morning fog now enhanced by increasing rain he left the riding men to their own journey. Porthos had only just dropped his gaze back to his silent brother when the commotion kicked up. He raised his eyes in time to see d’Artagnan’s back as Corneul lunged. He did not move for the rider on the horse that had kept him captive, with his bonds loosened he went sideward using the momentum and surprise. Athos went down in a tangle, he’d been moving to correct, pulled from his horse by the desperate Corneul.

“Stop the cart!”

Seeing Treville and d’Artagnan making for the wrestling men Porthos trusted he could remain tucked over Aramis. He tensed for movement should he be needed, but after a fraction of chaos their accompanying soldiers launched into the fray. Between rain and fog it was more difficult to track the progress of the men grappling in the wet roadway, but eventually Athos was on his feet and several blades including his own on the men in the mud. The prisoners were resecured, more forcefully this time, and more tightly to trail the horses. Treville or Fournier or both, this time, allowing the rope round the neck d’Artagnan had initially proposed. Athos sheathed his sword and replaced his hat gingerly. Porthos did note Treville steadying his brother before they all remounted. 

Porthos also took note that Aramis slept on unbothered by the explosive struggle so he untensed himself to lean back again. He returned his mind to monitoring the uneven road surface, Aramis had earnt every moment of peaceful slumber and Porthos would guard it with his own life.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Will he wake?” Treville asked over the fire’s irregular noise. The late afternoon saw more substantial rains and the Chateau was drafty.

Fournier ushered them to an expansive room reserved for visitors of import and a musketeer recovering from uncovering a long-chased network of spies more than qualified. Athos had moved to the cavernous fireplace as soon as they’d settled Aramis into the equally large bed. They were converging around the canopied mattress when Corbeau spoke.

“I cannot say.”

The medic stepped back from arranging some of the pillows around their patient for support and took over when Corbeau seemed unable to speak further. “We’ve done all we can. Just as we said last night, it’s a matter of rest now and staving off infection.”

“Treating, more like.” Corbeau found his voice once more and addressed Treville and Fournier squarely. “On sheer proportion there will be infection. Days of exposure, little water, starvation? Most assuredly several of the wounds will turn, it will be a slow recovery if at all.”

“We can give him a chance here, sirs.”

“Thank you, Gaudet.” Treville nodded in turn to each. “Dr. Corbeau.”

Fournier eyed them both. “Whatever you need, you’ll have.”

He spoke next to the assembled and seemingly inseparable musketeers, “I can have rooms prepared on this floor, or there is space here to bring in spare beds. Make your wishes known to the men stationed outside and they’ll see it done.” 

Captain Fournier moved to leave, “Jean, if you wish I’ll be settling our prisoners…”

The three weary musketeers tensed, hesitant to leave the pale man in the bed even if it was to certain care. They were eager to see the traitor installed in the prison and undeniably invested in questioning him. With no affirmation of better odds for their brother the scales balanced more towards staying at his bed than seeking recompense for his state, yet.

“Yes.” Treville answered, but did not move before addressing his men. “You’ll remain here until I return.”

They were exhausted in body and spirit, they had no trouble fulfilling the order, and silently moved to settle in around the bedside.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD…  
> Migraine | Concussion | Ringing Ears

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The driving rain against the glass competed with the crackling fire as Athos knelt to break up the charred log and add the next. Porthos had stayed nearly dry transferring Aramis from the cart to see him installed in the large room, but he and d’Artagnan had been left to the elements for the entirety of their journey. His leathers were soddened and the weight of them pulled at him along with the tiredness they were all suffering.

Even Aramis’ hair was still drying, “It might dry faster if you left it alone for a few moments.” Athos ran a hand through his own locks, wincing, they were damp despite the hat he’d worn for most of their ride here. “You’ve washed it thrice.”

“And he’ll probably still want it done when he wakes.” Porthos didn’t look up – or stop stroking through the drying curls – but he did acknowledge Athos speaking to him. “’Sides it doesn’t really count when half the pillow under him was dirty anyway.”

“It might be easier to just help him bathe entirely,” d’Artagnan said with a cocked brow towards the massive tub set into a corner next to a decorative screen and wardrobe. He bent back to the bed he was arranging across from the large wooden poster bed Aramis slept in. They'd added two to the room and rearranged the chairs to their liking. While the dominant frame of the canopied bed was large enough for two of them they feared jostling Aramis too much to risk. One of them would likely remain awake at all times so there was no need for a third bed to be made up. 

Athos crossed back over and dropped to one of the chairs positioned nearer the footboard between the beds. It was wooden and tooled leather and one of the more modest pieces in the room. He held back a groan from the warmth of the fire at his back and moved his gaze over all three of his companions. The list Treville gave him would keep for a bit, he was waiting on the retrieval of the books he would need to decipher Aramis’ coding.

Fournier had set a two-man sentry outside to see to their and the attending doctors’ needs round the clock. They merely needed to open the door, and someone would run for who or what was requested. There was little danger here and if there were further soldiers involved then they would soon be discovered, and it would make little sense to try to attack them now. The attending soldiers were more convenience than protection. Given how drained they all were it was practical.

“Another question to put to them later.” Athos doubted Corbeau or Gaudet would approve a full submersion, but perhaps they could rig something together when changing out the linens. He crossed his boots at the ankles and tilted his head back a bit to catch more heat off the fire.

“You alright?”

Athos started; he hadn’t even noticed d’Artagnan’s approach.

 _“‘A commotion of the mind,’ we’ll know more when he wakes…”_ Athos recalled Aramis quoting their countrymen’s medical works to him years ago on the battlefield encampment as they waited outside the tent for word Porthos had regained consciousness. Gaudet and Corbeau were certain Aramis was concussed all the pieced together narratives indicated multiple blows to his head in addition to the drugged broth and water. Considering the wounds in totality Athos chose to not be concerned over the ramifications until Aramis woke. And he would wake, regardless of what had been speculated by the physicians. 

His own head was splitting as he tried to recall if he’d struck ground earlier today, but there'd been no blood when he ran a hand over his scalp before replacing his hat after the earlier scuffle. It might just be from the jarring impact or simply pressure building from lack of sleep. Athos would ask to be checked when one of the men returned to look over Aramis. He was grateful for the dim light due to the rain; it always helped his headaches to be in the dark. At least he knew it owed nothing to wine, they’d had little opportunity these past days, then again perhaps it did factor.

Athos stood, or he might’ve if his head wasn’t disagreeing with him over where he wanted to place his body. He thought he might have heard someone calling out to him, but it was lost to the growing sounds in his ears. The rain and fire had been undercut by a steadying ringing these past hours. Treville had still not returned with news. He felt d’Artagnan’s hand curl over his shoulder to steady him back down.

“…I’ll get it, what do you need?”

“Wine?”

“Athos…” d’Artagnan started.

“Actually, not a bad idea, ask ‘em to bring a few bottles.” Porthos called out from his sprawl against the post at the foot of the bed. He’d moved to lean with his stockinged feet on the mattress. _When had he moved from the other side? And to the end? And removed his boots?_

“Trying to revive him with the stench?” Athos inquired. A thin droll tone attempting to cover for the lapse in observations.

Porthos wiggled his toes. “If it were that easy, I’d take them off and wave them under his nose.”

Aramis luckily kept unconscious and unaware of the potential attempt to awaken him being debated. He was mostly on his stomach and fortunately with him laying and Porthos sitting the unbooted feet still only came to his chest. “When do you think we can get something else into him?”

It hadn’t been that long that Aramis had been asleep, but in his drugged and confused state they were only able to get a bit of water into him before he’d passed out completely. Porthos made use of it by using the rest to wash some of the grime tangled in his hair. He’d helped in washing down the rest of him before they managed to wrestle him into clean braies and a shirt over the heavily bandaged limbs for travel. There were so many cuts that Corbeau had removed the shirt once he was ensconced in the bed. The rich blankets were thick so there was little risk of chill and so many bandages his torso was mostly covered in soft cotton strips.

“Hopefully he’ll wake tonight?” D’Artagnan sounded like he believed the possibility. “Corbeau did say they would have provided him liquids to hide the drugs and seemed to think it’s those keeping him under. So…”

“So we still have no clue how much they gave him. And no real idea that he’ll wake soon.” Porthos blew out a frustrated gust of air. He tilted to see the dimming sky outside was not relenting in its downpour. He moved to the heavily cushioned brocade chair they set next to the head of the bed to have a better view of Athos and D’Artagnan while still near enough to reach out to Aramis should he need.

“What do you think?”

“Hmmm?” Athos pulled his gaze from the bed skirt. “Weren’t you meant to be getting wine?”

“May as well get some food with that too?” Porthos settled deeper into the chair distracted fractionally for the moment to something other than their injured brother. “The kitchens here are enormous! And it’s been awhile since we…”

Porthos trailed off and glanced to the side – back to the figure on the bed.

“Not eating yourself does nothing to help him.”

He knew Athos was right, of all of them he was most intimately familiar with starvation. Leaving hunger unanswered when there were no obstacles to nourishment made little sense. It still didn’t stop the pang of guilt, but when he thought of Pierre relaying the meager crust of bread he’d been tasked to give and Bourdin explaining how Corneul strictly rationed everything anger quickly overtook him.

D’Artagnan pulled him back. “Who knows? Maybe the scent will rouse him?”

Porthos chose to view that as positive rather than let the imaginings of how famished he’d be in that case. Then again, he really would take anything that was not harming his brother further to wake him.

“Have them add a broth, in case.”

Signaling his agreement with a nod d’Artagnan waited to move for the door. “Any requests?”

Porthos shook his head, removing his doublet and leaned his elbows to his knees.

“Besides the wine?” He patted Athos’ shoulder before straightening fully.

Athos smirked wryly. _Besides the wine?_ “Whatever is on hand, just something warm.”

D’Artagnan turned for the door. Athos twisted to the fireplace. Porthos rubbed at his eyes.

Aramis did not move at all. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?  
> Extreme Weather | Nightmares

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Huge clouds were already careering in the skies, and distant flashes announced a tempest…the vast voice of Nature, which also appeared to be herself groaning in despair.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“…the best men, perhaps the best marksman in all of France!”_

Aramis knew he was dreaming, or maybe this part of his heaven involved Treville singing his praises? That would be nice. He really did his best to excel in the regiment, to be of service.

_“…certainly one of the finest Musketeers!”_

Well then. He would need to remember this. Perhaps remind the man he’d said so on occasion when…well he was yelling. Why was he yelling? Couldn’t he just commend Aramis instead? That had been nice. 

_“And you three! Not one of you stopped it!”_

Now that sounded familiar. Although he would prefer his brothers not take blame for his own actions. What had he done? Treville was bellowing at them.

_“…stood by…allowed him to…”_

Allowed? The Captain knew him well enough by now to realize that they rarely allowed Aramis anything. Lord knew Athos certainly tried to counsel him or flat out berated him his more ill-advised exploits. They all knew preventing his impulses was like trying to train a cat, a futile exercise that only wasted time, yielded few gains, and the cat did as it wanted regardless.

_“…not without consequences…nearly died…”_

What had he done? He needed to tell Treville it wasn’t their fault! He would not see his brothers face consequences for actions that were his own.

_“…consider…now get out!”_

No! If they were near, he wanted – he needed – to see them.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Treville dragged the chair to an angle facing the bed’s occupant. Aramis had not stirred throughout the shouting and remained unmoving while the trays laden with food were deposited on the carved table moved near to the doorway. Treville didn’t turn, he was wholly unconcerned with the proceedings, he trusted the men Fournier handpicked as he would trust his own.

The large bed was along the far wall from the door, a gap to the wall for the bedside table and to allow exiting the bed at either side, Aramis would have a full view of any comings and goings when he woke. One of the additional beds had been placed parallel to it, chairs at opposite ends to be maneuvered between. The fireplace took up most of the wall opposite the two beds, flanked by large pane windows to either side, a second bed brought in had its head against the wall next to the mantle’s end. It would allow the occupant to lay reversed to the other two beds and remain closest to the door. On the other side of it was the large wardrobe and a deep tub, partially in view behind the changing screen. 

“Seems like they’re getting off easy” Porthos grumbled good naturedly. He moved towards the dark wood table they’d pushed to the wall by the closed door. It was covered in plates of meats, cheeses, fruits, bread, bowls of thick stew and the requested wine. There was a single bowl of basic broth at the edge that unsettled his stomach. “We’ve gotten worse from you before.”

“Fournier and I will impart a suitable reprimand for them once we have the full measure of what transpired. They were following orders, Porthos.”

“Orders from a traitor.”

D’Artagnan appeared in Porthos’ periphery and began selecting his own bits off the table. “Not even Aramis realized, at first.”

“He was drugged. They just went along.” His fingers clenched in echo of their grip on Bourdin, he remembered the perplexed look. The man insisted on accompanying those soldiers retrieving Aramis and he’d been enraged when they came upon Corneul and his conspirator about to murder Gilles. 

“And we didn’t know either.” Treville called over his shoulder.

Porthos finished putting together two plates and came back across the room. He held one down to Treville and set the other on the end of the bed. He frowned at the dark view that masked the pounding rain and moved to replenish the fireplace. The building storm was not helping the room’s temperature but the immense stone fireplace distributed heat well throughout the room. They’d placed Aramis at the far side of the bed so that his back would be open to tending without having to move him while he slept. That left him on the side of the mattress further from the fire.

“Bunch of them are bleeding through,” Porthos’ fingertips brushed lightly over the bandages to check if they were still wet. The spotting was a mix of dark red and brown patches. His other fingers he ran over Aramis’ forehead and the skin felt neither cool nor heated. He still dragged the heavy blankets from his mid-back to tuck loosely over his shoulders. Aramis’ injured left hand rested just off the pillow and had been re-splinted by Corbeau.

The season meant the sky darkened earlier with every week and the storm added to the confusion over the time. Both men had assured they’d be back in the evening to check over their charge. Lightning did not help orient the time and the developing thunder only made Porthos feel apprehensive for his friend. He checked the blankets again before rounding the mattress and perching on the end of the poster bed.

“No fever?”

“None that I feel. They seemed pretty certain.”

“It would be miraculous if none develops.”

“Pretty much a miracle we found him at all.” D’Artagnan added from his cross-legged position at the end of the spare bed across from them. The three men picked at their plates contemplating the events in silence. D’Artagnan had just finished and sprung up to get wine when a knock broke into their separate reveries. 

“The books you asked for?” A young man stood at the door with a burlap wrapped pile. D’Artagnan recognized him from earlier, he’d been very attentive listening to Athos relay the volumes he wanted. He was dripping, perhaps just arrived back from trudging about the city for them.

“Oh. Athos didn’t find you?”

“I did not see him on my way, no.”

“Right. I’ll just take them then.” D’Artagnan swung the three cups and the bottle back to the tabletop and reached to brace the heavy stack. “Thanks.”

“If there’s anything else, I’m off shift now but I know most of the booksellers so just have someone wake me if you’re needing other ones.”

“We will, thank you lad.” Treville had stood to gently dismiss the soldier. He was eyeing the bundle in d’Artagnan’s arms. They were eager to translate the list, neither of the two spies in custody were willing to provide their conspirators identities yet.

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to pass along to Athos you’re wanting him if I should see him?”

Treville nodded and the younger soldier gave a quick nod to him and the others before exiting.

“And just where has Athos disappeared to?”

“He wanted to check on the progress locating the books. I think he was going to see if you and Captain Fournier had gotten anything out the prisoners, but clearly you missed each other.”

“Yeah, that’s a while ago now. Think we should fetch him or just start on the wine and let him take his chances?” Porthos gestured to the table where d’Artagnan had abandoned the cups for the books.

“Bring them here, d’Artagnan.” Treville gestured to the bedside table, the ornately carved bedside table. He glanced over at Porthos, “There’s plenty of wine here. And brandy.” Treville looked to the table, the men had been thorough in stocking the sick room.

“And food, he still hasn’t eaten.”

“Maybe he stopped off in the kitchens?” D'Artagnan suggested.

“Man could definitely get lost in those.” Porthos mused.

“Yes, well take d’Artagnan with you – he’ll keep you from losing your way through the pantry.”

Porthos laughed as he rose. “Yes, sir.” He winked. Turning to the still unmoved figure in the rich blankets he hesitated.

Treville touched his shoulder to guide him forward with light pressure. “I’ll be here.”

“Right, let’s see what we can find!” He grabbed at d’Artagnan as he strode for the door.

“Mind you retrieve Athos with your searching.”

D’Artangan nodded rapidly as he was tugged through the door.

Treville eased back into the cushioned chair.

When he startled at the lightening flicker before the thunder sounded as though it were directly over the Chateau he was grateful it was just he and the sleeping soldier. Rain was not unseasonable, but the severity of the clashing heavens was. It was moments before the next flash and rumble was overhead. He glanced over at Aramis, a sliver of hope that the resounding noise might wake him. There was no motion from the bed. He unbound the package and reviewed the stacked contents.

“ _The method of curing wounds caused by arquebus and firearms_ , really Aramis? Secrecy was paramount, but you might have made the books a bit easier to decipher.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_He jolted straight to a seated position in the bed. The sheets and his nightclothes were tangled about him. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists into the bedding. He peered intently around the dark room, his disorientation left him unfamiliar with the shapes and layout despite knowing it by day._

_There was light flickering under the door, the man – his father – was still awake._

_Rene crept out of the bed, keeping his steps light. He made his way down the hall, checking behind him to make sure he hadn’t awakened the other boy living here. When he reached the end, he hesitated staring at the back of the chair where he could see the man’s boots sticking out. He was barefoot from his bed and stood shivering when the heat from the fire highlighted the cold at his feet and back._

_“Are you going to stand there all night?”_

_“…I…I thought I heard a noise…I came to check.” Rene moved forward, weaving a story as he rounded the chair._

_“Did you?” His father smiled at him, but his eyes held disbelief._

_Rene wanted to tell him he did, he was rapidly building a tale about a bird and his window and branches and then he remembered he’d said a noise out here, in this room._

_“And this…noise…” The man shifted and leaned forward, the blanket spread over his lap a soft woven yarn. “It has you so troubled you left your warm bed to come and shiver out here?”_

_“…well…I…”_

_“And I am grateful you thought to protect me, but surely you’d be more comfortable under the blanket, hmm?”_

_Still feeling unsettled from his dream he hesitated, a few moments, but the man didn’t close or lower his arms. He just waited. Rene thought about slinking back to his room, but he was afraid to go back to sleep. He climbed up to sit sideward and his head was tucked under the man’s beard. The tension in his limbs eased as the man nestled him into the blanket._

_“When I cannot sleep, when something troubles me, I like to come here and sit before the fire.” He tightened his arm over Rene’s shoulder and then let it rest. “It’s very soothing.”_

_Rene just nodded; the man would feel it. Now that he was settled the reason for his waking was pushing into his thoughts. He’d ran endlessly in his dream – his nightmare really – trying to catch up, trying to see, but he just couldn’t make out the features. He could not hear the voice, he could not remember, and it left him terrified. He felt so lost and so very guilty._

_“I’m sorry your sleep was disturbed.”_

_Rene sniffed in response, he was trying to forget his worries; they were silly, a foolish child’s fears. He had to look after himself now, he was alone, and nobody would be able to help him resolve his fears. He knew it was childish, but he wanted his mother, he wanted to see her, and he worried that his memories were blurry. The blanket was blurring as he kept his eyes fixed to it._

_“I couldn’t find her…” The words snuck out and he hastened to recover, his eyes burning along with his cheeks, “…in my dream, I…”_

_“And this has you troubled.” There was no question, no attempt to dismiss his worries, no mocking._

_Rene just nodded, his hands twisting and picking at the fluffy blanket._

_“They are fine-boned, like hers.”_

_He was so startled by the statement that he pulled back, nearly slipping to the floor. When he looked up he didn’t bother to swipe away the tears that escaped, but large palms cradled his cheeks and wiped them for him. One returned to his shoulder and tucked him more securely into the lap and blanket. The other tugged his ear._

_“She has a freckle there too,” he poked the lobe, “and these are shaped like hers.”_

_“…I can’t…” Rene was so overwhelmed that crying was his only recourse._

_He was a combination of the best of them, his father had said, from his physical traits to his mannerisms. Cradled in his father’s lap they’d stayed up until the fire was embers and he catalogued each of his mother’s features. He pointed out every one that had passed to his son when Rene had tearfully confessed his fear that he’d forget her._


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS.  
> Stoic Whumpees | Found Family (alt. prompt)

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

The firelight softened the unfamiliar room, the rather opulent unfamiliar room. He worried he was dreaming, or delirious, there had been a pit, he tried to dream of his brothers again, and then he remembered the fireplace in his father’s house. The memory was so vivid, but the man seated before him was not his father; if he wasn’t already laying, he’d have sagged down in relief because Treville was just as much of one to him. He was safe. Whatever else may have befallen him, he was protected in this room.

“Cap…” The rasping from the bed was nearly lost to the thunder, “Captain?”

Treville looked up from reading and gazed at Aramis with an expression he could not place.

He tried to raise himself but pushing down on his left hand put pressure to the splint and the spark set off from broken bone was only the first of many simultaneous pains arising.

“Careful.” His captain placed the book to the nightstand and kept in his sightlines as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Where?” The husk was probably owed to disuse and the restrictive collar he’d been wearing. His gaze roaming the space in confusion would mostly be the drugs or his head wound, potentially just his own meandering back from a dream.

“Chateau de Foix.”

“There was a pit?” Aramis again made to rise, “Corneul.”

“We know.” Treville placed his palm over the forearm Aramis was attempting to brace on, it was one of the least injured places on the man. “We came upon him and his companion attempting to murder Gilles.”

Aramis let his head fall the millimeters it gained back to the pillows. His brows pinched, “He wasn’t one…?” His voice gave out at the same time he clenched his eyes reacting to one or more of the waking injuries.

“No. Neither are Boucher or Bourdin.” Treville tucked the blanket more securely under Aramis’ elbow, he’d bank the fire in a moment. “Try not to move too much, some of the wounds at your back have opened again.”

Aramis swallowed and scrunched his eyes tighter. Well as much as he needed on the one side, the left was still mostly swollen shut despite the thorough cleaning received. When Aramis managed to reopen them both he turned his wrist eyeing the bandage.

Treville sensed the movement but Aramis’ arm slipped from under his hand before he could prevent the motion. He watched for only a moment as Aramis palpated his unbandaged neck.

“It’s…” Aramis’ eyes fell closed and he swallowed thickly.

“Removed. Now stop.” Treville gently pried the questing fingers away. He held the hand briefly before settling it back to the soft mattress. “There’s no bandage, Corbeau didn’t want it covered for now. He’ll be checking it soon.”

Aramis nodded briefly, his curls catching on the pillow. “He’s not?”

“No.”

“Good, hoped not.” Aramis looked sincerely relieved at the information. And then his gaze drifted, “And another?”

Treville took a second to switch his thoughts but figured who Aramis meant. “We caught them outside where you were being held, a wooded area not far from Calmont. Corneul and his accomplice were about to shoot Gilles from behind, he’d already been shot in the leg. It’s our belief he was going to kill Gilles and make it seem you’d done so to prevent his exposure. They’ve been uncooperative – so far – but d’Artagnan encountered the other man in Vernajoul.”

“Where are…?” Aramis winced out a swallow and continued, “…the others? Why did...you send them away?”

Treville chuckled, “They’ve gone to retrieve Athos, they should return shortly.” His gaze softened with the same indeterminable expression he’d had upon finding Aramis was awake. “They will be much relieved to see you’ve woken.”

“But…the yelling?”

“Ah,” the man appeared amused. “For once not due to anything you all have done. No, Boucher, Bourdin and Gilles came round for news of your status.”

Aramis said nothing, his features once more slack as he tried to work out the information being relayed. Treville figured there were many conflating thoughts and kept silent waiting for Aramis to align his next inquiry.

“…greatest marksman?” He peered up, the edge of his mustache lifting.

“Hmm, I suppose I am prone to exaggeration when incensed.”

Aramis’ small smile did not falter, “…finest…‘s not an exaggeration…”

Treville met his teasing eyes. “No. You are one of my finest Musketeers.”

The response left Aramis momentarily without one of his own. Before he finished the pained swallow to provide reply, Treville interjected.

“About that apple brandy…”

Aramis forgot himself entirely and snorted breathily into his pillow. His disjointed recollections might not remember when he’d said, or what, but Treville would hardly believe him innocent of all the deeds he might’ve been referring to in his foggy communications.

“I don’t remember…”

“No? You made mention of it when we found you.”

“Captain, I am so sorry…” Aramis looked anything but contrite, “…surely I said a great deal that…” Again, Aramis took a swallow that looked painful, “…might have seemed confusing to you all in my delirium.”

“Indeed,” Treville considered him for a moment, “leave that.”

Aramis had once more started to reach for his throat.

“Let Corbeau examine it, he’s managed salve around the abrasions but left it unbandaged for a reason. Several of your injuries he’s left unbound, in fact. He and the medic from Toulouse will be returning tonight.”

“And you’re also…reviewing?” Aramis shifted his chin and glanced at the bedside table.

_The method of curing wounds caused by arquebus and firearms_ ’ binding was facing the bed.

“Did you know him, Captain?”

Treville huffed a laugh that broke his attempt at annoyed countenance “Paré was well before my time. I did know some – older soldiers – that served with him. A fine man by their accounts.” He glanced at the book, “It’s an interesting manuscript, but Athos will have to manage the translation of your code.”

Aramis smiled and shifted to speak, or he would have if his voice did not break on rasp more noise than word. His voice was expectedly weak, but there were many injuries to attribute that to.

“Do you think you can take some broth?”

Aramis’ mismatched stare lingered several moments before he nodded once.

Treville felt his wrist caught as he made to rise. Looking along his arm he saw it was the two splinted fingers against his wrist, but he settled back all the same. He was about to ask what was wrong but remained quiet when he looked down.

Aramis had glimpsed the distance to the table and held him back.

They were interrupted by lightning shattering the night sky and thunder close behind with the storm so close overhead. Aramis let his eyes fall shut. Treville was considering making an offer of the water which only required leaning to the bedside table when another crash followed. The door slammed open and just as Treville was about to bark at the sentries on duty d’Artagnan’s voice ordered from behind.

“By the fire, we need the light.”

Aramis’ eyes snapped open unnoticed as Treville was already on his feet and his back was to the bed.

“I’ve got him, get his doublet.”

“I am fine!”

“You are not, you’re half drowned. Let him get that off.”

“Stop this, let go!”

“And watch you try to fly off the barbican again?”

“Porthos, I told you,” Athos managed to wrench one arm free but it was immediately recaptured. “I slipped!” 

Fortunately Treville was not blocking the view to the bed near the fireplace. He was starting to wonder if he was back in the throes of mind-altered dreaming. A soaked through d’Artagnan and Porthos were wrestling with a sopping wet Athos. D’Artagnan was still trying to get off Athos’ belt, but the drenched leather was sticking, and Athos was fighting the divesting.

“Aramis!”

“Yeah, still sleeping. He’s fine. You’re not, now hold still.”

“No!”

“Just hold him Porthos.”

“I am fine!” Athos kept pulling, attempting to get away. “You’re not listening!”

“Because you’re not making sense.” Porthos held his doublet askew by the shoulder.

“Gentlemen, enough!”

D’Artagnan and Porthos didn’t remove their hands from Athos, but turned to Treville. Athos ignored the captain and kept his eyes fixed to the bed. The other two released him in shock when they heard the whispered command plead from the corner.

“Athos…let them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Thank you SO much for all of the encouragement and sticking with this! We're nearing the end of the whumping, but since I'm behind I don't want to rush to finish. I will finish though, promise! I just might not get this wrapped up for 10/31. Happy 10/31 celebratories for any who do and however you might! **


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?   
> Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Concussion

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Besides we are men, and after all it is our business to risk our lives.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Let them.”

Porthos didn’t release Athos as he moved to the bed, he used the collar of his doublet like a cat’s scruff.

Athos frowned over at him but moved along, dripping on the carpet as they went. He blinked slowly and kept his stare level with the bed.

Treville moved slightly aside as he turned to allow the two men tethered to each other to pass. He titled his head in a sharp nod towards the bedside when d’Artagnan wavered glancing between him and the bed in disbelief, which jostled him enough that he shot like a deer in flight to come up on Athos’ other side. The three aligned at the mattress edge.

“You’re awake.”

Aramis nodded once and smiled at Porthos for breaking the silence even if it was only to state apparent facts.

“For a few minutes now. Get this into him, I’ll see about Corbeau.”

He gave the bowl to Porthos who used the hand not gripping Athos’ leathers to receive it. Unnoticed by them when he retrieved the cooling broth. Treville made to move for the other side of the room again, waiting a moment to ensure Porthos didn’t drop the bowl in his shock Treville moved for the door.

“You got him?” Porthos addressed d’Artagnan over Athos’ head without moving his gaze from the bed.

“No,” Aramis addressed Porthos as he made to sit on the bed. “…Athos” was an emphatic whisper accompanied with a nodded chin towards the standing men.

“I am…” Athos’ voice dropped off and he slipped his shoulder free from Porthos’ loosened grip. He said nothing further and wavered between helping the flinching man on the bed and steadying himself absent Porthos’ firm grip.

Aramis pushed further up awkwardly grabbing for some of the thickly stuffed pillows. The numerous pile indicated the room often intended the occupant to have a bedfellow. He cringed a few times but was resettled before any of them could offer assistance. Propped with the down filled support under his chest and less injured right side he was able to raise his head to pin Athos with a glare. Even through bruising and a narrower slant to one eye the expression was still more formidable than pitiable, a testament to their friend’s resilience.

“Say fine…” He rasped. “…I dare you.”

“You are in no position to question anyone’s…”

“Enough!” Porthos was gentle as a cat maneuvering a precarious perch when he sat on the mattress despite the force behind his voice. “You, let him get that off of you.” He nodded to Athos and gestured with his right hand, free of the bowl.

“And you,” dropping the free hand he turned and used it to steady Aramis’ right wrist where it was dangling on the pile of pillows. He passed the bowl to Aramis and reached out to lift it from the other side. His motions were smooth, but his voice was a bit choked when he ordered, “small sips.”

D’Artagnan barely moved staring at the admittedly tender sight of Porthos tilting the bowl for the brother they’d so long feared lost. He’d gotten better at discerning signals and emotions shared silently between them all. He contributed in his own right often now, but sometimes he felt there were still oceans between understanding and interpreting the seamless communication between the three. The youngest man never felt excluded by it, just wrong footed, like he’d moved left in a dance when it called for a right turn. And like a dance one of the others would always notice and reorient him back to their mutual direction.

His musing kept his fingers moving in a continued working of Athos’ belt. The wet leather finally gave way to his slipping fingers. Athos had not moved at all; he was transfixed by the sight of an awake and moving Aramis.

D’Artagnan finally shifted his eyes and in turn smiled at Athos’ profile. It wasn’t until he raised his hands to maneuver the doublet off that he saw it wasn’t just rainwater his palms were slicked with.

“Porthos,” the rasp was sharp enough that Porthos moved the bowl away before Aramis could shift himself to push at it.

D’Artagnan had already cast the belt to the floor and was shifting the open sides to seek the injury. “Where are you hurt?”

Athos’ eyes took a moment to focus on d’Artagnan as though he was startled to find him standing next to him. “I’m…I don’t…”

D’Artagnan figured he meant to look downwards at himself but his eyes were on d’Artagnan’s boots instead. Athos raised his head and turned to the bed. “You’re awake.” He looked so genuinely relieved at his discovery.

“How long has he…?”

“Found him trying to toss himself off the…”

“Here!” D’Artagnan had his hands tucked into Athos’ left side. “That feels really deep.” His voice was accusatory in its sharpness, but his eyes were confused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“He didn’t know…did you?”

“He didn’t?” Porthos was similarly warring between stunned and frustrated. He was edging off the bed, hesitating with the broth and which brother needed him most. He knew they’d each order him to the other’s aid.

“How long…” Aramis addressed them all. “Like this…?”

“Was this Corneul!” D’Artagnan had moved to angle himself into Athos’ shifting field of vision.

“You’ve been hiding that all this time?” Porthos’ voice rose along with his body.

“Take off his…” Aramis’ hand wave nearly dislodged Porthos’ grip on the bowl but spirited both Porthos and d’Artagnan intio motion.

“I have told you,” Athos seemed to forget d’Artagnan’s discovery and twisted away from the questing hands. “I am…”

“Don’t.”

Porthos left the bowl on the bedside table while d’Artagnan gripped both shoulders to pull the doublet off. He left it rent down to the elbows and moved to tug the shirt free. “Ought to leave that there to stop your wriggling. Now just hold still.”

D’Artagnan took Athos’ elbows lightly, fingers tapping in debate of removing the impromptu leather restraint. Ultimately his concern overrode his desire for convenience.

“Athos…” Porthos chided in a whisper, all anger melted at the watered-down blood sliding to Athos’ waist. “That’s a real bad gash.” The wound was jagged, whatever caused it had likely dragged along his side.

“I didn’t realize…” Athos hunched a bit trying to observe the ripped skin Porthos was examining.

“Easy.” D’Artagnan steadied him as he fully slid the leather free and tossed it aside. He took the shirt hem from Porthos and maneuvered it off the no longer resisting Athos.

“I’ll get some cloths.” Porthos rose, cupping Athos’ hip on his way up. Fortunately they were close by and there was an abundance of them already.

“Stitches.”

“We can ask the physician,” Athos glanced over to the bed and then addressed the two men now prodding his side. “Why don’t one of you go fetch him?”

Porthos ignored him steadily cleaning the water slickened wound.

D’Artagnan looked up from where he’d knelt next to Porthos. “Treville’s already gone, he said…never mind.” He turned to Aramis, “Mind if we?”

Aramis looked to the clean and folded shirts and small clothes on the chest d’Artagnan was indicating. He nodded distractedly watching Porthos cover the brocade chair next to the bed with haphazardly thrown sheets. Athos was watching d’Artagnan pat his side with a wet cloth, “hold that,” he told Porthos as he jerked his elbow to indicate the fabric against Athos’ left side. He moved to the right to angle himself between the bed and chair. “Let’s get him sitting.”

Athos continued to passively observe their actions. D’Artagnan swiped one of the decorative pillows cast to the floor earlier. He tucked it behind Athos as they got him seated.

“Keep holding it Porthos…with no clothing looks…”

“Yeah looks like it’s bleeding freer, hard to tell.”

“You’re awake…” Athos had turned his head. “Are you…”

Aramis choked on an aborted snort. He couldn’t fully laugh at the circumstances with such honest relief shown for him. Athos looked like a miracle he’d never believed would exist had occurred before his eyes.

Aramis smiled gently. “I’m awake.” He wouldn’t say fine any more than he’d allowed Athos before. He was in too much pain to deny its existence, but he was so happy to be in their presence nothing else was worth comment. Well, almost nothing.

“Just hold still.” Aramis wanted to extend a hand to him but at full extension his fingers didn’t reach the end of the bed. Athos was at least able to make sense of his intention, he unbent his elbow and rested his hand over Aramis’ non-splinted fingers. “Let them help…” He insisted again, aware Athos might be hearing it for the first time. He shifted his gaze back up, “How did…?”

“He wasn’t this bad earlier!” D’Artagnan protested part in self-conscious defense and part in consideration of sparing Aramis’ throat.

“Been a bit quiet, but that’s…” Porthos shrugged trailing off and rechecking the cloth he compressed to Athos’ side. “Shouldn’t have let him wander.”

“I was not wandering.” Damp and half dressed in a chair Athos still insisted, “I meant to ask about my headache.”

“Your head hurts?” D’Artagnan started to poke his fingers through the lank strands. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

“He fell?”

“The lieutenant pulled him off his horse.”

“The traitor dragged him down, took a few men to get him secure again.” Porthos continued and began looking for other wounds.

“I’m fine, it’s just my side.”

“Yeah?” Porthos rocked back on his heels to look balefully at him. He still held the cloth flattened to the seeping cut and moved his other hand to check for more. “How would you know? Hmm? You’ve been confused all day apparently. You didn’t even know you were bleeding.”

Athos pulled his arm from the bed and bit his lip, chest puffing to counter. “What…what are you doing?”

“Um…removing these?” D’Artagnan cast the left boot he’d tugged free to the side and began working the other.

“M’fine, just let me rest.”

“I hear I have two patients now.” Dr. Corbeau entered before Treville or Gaudet and was cataloging Aramis’ bandages as he crossed the room. “Fortunately, Gaudet has not departed yet, so you’ll have both our care. Now what have you managed to do to yourself, Athos?”

Corbeau had stopped between the chair and the bed sharply eyeing both injured men. Gaudet came up beside him but moved closer to Athos. “I can stitch that up if you want to…” He tilted his head towards the bed still assessing Athos’ side and his manner.

“He’s been confused, we found him disoriented and unsteady in the rain.”

“About to jump off the…”

“I was trying to return here!”

“By flying off…”

Treville had leant against the wall between the window and fireplace to observe them all. Gaudet’s voice broke over the men before Treville could more harshly intervene. 

“If you would just lean back, Athos, I’ll get that looked at.” He crouched down and slid his hand over the cloth Porthos still held. “If you would?”

Porthos nodded and rose. “It’s been bleeding the whole time since we took off his doublet.”

"And how did this occur?” Treville was keeping his voice even, but they all knew his worry would be overlaid with anger if they didn’t start providing information.

D’Artagnan had moved aside and was uncrumpling the garment from where it had been thrown aside. “We think when Corneul got him off his horse.”

“Whatever he might’ve used probably got dropped or kicked under the horses in the scuffle. Don’t know how we missed anything.”

D’Artagnan nodded as he continued searching the garment. “Here, it’s ripped through along the seam. Probably angled it down under the belt and the he dragged upwards?”

“Jagged and deep. It might scar a bit, but I’ll do what I can to minimize it.”

Athos just shrugged, hardly a vain man, though he squashed thoughts of how minimal the possibility of scarring would be were Aramis to do the stitching. An impossibility. He knew this before looking over to assure himself Aramis was in fact awake and watched Corbeau manipulate the bandages.

“I had hoped the same, Aramis,” Corbeau leant over from the furthest side of the bed. Aramis being half on his stomach and half leant on his right side provided access to the knife and bolt wounds, the newest stitching having been done in the hunting cabin. “It’s early, yet, but restitching and the exposure.”

Aramis barely shrugged. Based on what he could feel and remember he would have several physical scars to carry from these past days. Given their company he bit his tongue against a ludicrous laugh for his briefly vain thought to hope there would be none to his face or neck. 

“A number of these have bled through, but I’d like to leave the bandages overnight.” He replaced those he’d pulled loose or untucked. “We’ll need to watch closely for signs of infection, and I’d like to bandage your neck tonight if you can manage.”

Aramis didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, but he nodded. Porthos moved to sit on the empty side of the mattress knowing it would be disconcerting for his brother to have his neck examined by someone standing over and partly behind him. Being prone when injured made one feel vulnerable enough before anyone started poking at you, nevermind the implications when you could not fully view them. For them it would be Aramis whenever possible, but the man himself was rarely lucky enough to have consistency in treatment.

Sensing the shift in the bed, Aramis moved his head up on the pillows glancing at Porthos and further baring his neck to the doctor. He flinched before he could catch it and kept his eyes closed after. The only other outward sign of his discomfort was the sheet turning in his non-splinted fingers.

“Nearly finished.” The physician’s hands moved unceasingly along with this voice as he kept working salve into the abraded skin. “The skin is raw in places and the bruising deep, but I am confident it’ll heal well.”

Aramis’ harsh exhales were the only response. 

“You were able to take all the broth?”

Aramis nodded. “Bit cold though…” He winked up at Porthos when he opened his eyes.

“Yeah? Well I’ll make sure your important self’s meal is properly warmed later.”

“Lukewarm, and thin.” Corbeau instructed Porthos while he gently fixed the bandage around Aramis’ neck. “Nothing too strong for now.” Having checked Aramis’ back and wrists beforehand he made the offer before moving to check his lower half. “Would you like to try a shirt to rest?” 

“A bed…a shirt…I am dreaming.”

“Nope, just lucky to be with us.” Porthos only half-joked the double-meaning as he reached for the folded fabric d’Artagnan had grabbed for when Athos was stitched. He helped Corbeau guide it onto the man with minimal aggravation to his many bandaged and uncovered wounds.

“Alright, if you’d move to your stomach?”

Corbeau waited until Aramis was resettled before moving the bed linens and shifting the clean braies down.

Porthos moved to look over the meal options the soldiers must have brought in unnoticed when Trevile returned earlier. He noted that the Captain had moved putting his back to the bed to oversee Athos’ mending while engaging both men with intermittent questions. Porthos signaled d’Artagnan, from where he hovered, to come with him to the table to give the doctor and Aramis the semblance of some privacy.

He grabbed the younger man’s elbow more to keep himself from turning when Aramis cut a high sound off instantly. Porthos imagined it was the bolt wound or the deep cut to his groin but having seen the host of injuries it might have been any or all of them. He was startled out of his concern when d’Artagnan clasped his shoulder. Porthos hadn’t noticed when he’d slipped his arm free.

“They brought more broth. You can warm it when he’s ready.” D’Artagnan began arranging a few plates and portioning more solid foods onto them. “Want me to make one up for you too?” 

“Nah, thanks though.” He moved to recover the broth to sit for when Aramis was ready and began to make a small plate up for himself. “Just get the Captain and Athos.” He didn’t know if Gaudet or Corbeau would stay and for himself he only wanted a small bit now so he could help Aramis while the others ate.

By the time he glanced back Corbeau was at the foot of the bed tending Aramis’ torn up ankles. The bedclothes were replaced back up to Aramis’ mid-back and he’d shifted partially to his side again. Porthos brought over his minimal plate to perch back on the small bed across from the injured men leaving d’Artagnan to ferry over dinner to Treville and Athos.

“How are you planning to coordinate this?” Treville took his plate with his thanks before asking d’Artagnan. It was Aramis who answered.

“Captain, please…allow him supper… but you really…” Aramis pulled back the bedclothes in front of him, “…ought to send him to bed.”

Porthos had finished his portion and moved to Athos’ chair. “You heard the man, let’s get these off.” 

Having only just settled back to the pillow with his stitches completed Athos looked poised to argue. Before he could, perhaps his mind was slower than he’d realized, Porthos had his trousers undone. “Lift.” He found it best not to fight the man though he was skeptical of sharing Aramis’ bed given all his injuries. Athos was also allowed a shirt to accompany his small clothes as he was moved to the large bed.

With his unruly soldiers finally settled all together, Treville fixed them each with a glare in turn. “Not one of you is leaving this room tonight. You will rest. You will heal. You will have my report from Fournier and my questioning the prisoners tonight, tomorrow. You will not leave these quarters.” When all four had given their assent, or what passed for it, Treville took his and Porthos’ plate over to the table as he exited the room.

“And I’ll take my leave as well. Keep him focused and resting, the cut’s clean though so it should be alright. Let us know if anything changes. With either of them.”

Corbeau watched two of the four men nod before catching their attention. “I’m nearly finished as well, but I’d like this reapplied later this evening.” He indicated the raw skin of Aramis’ ankles and the bleeding patches that were too thin to stitch and could not close over.

Porthos moved alongside him and eyed the damaged feet. “I can do it again later, now too if you want?”

Corbeau had thoroughly cleaned the areas and all that was left was to apply the salve. “You can massage it at some of the thicker areas, don’t be afraid to press the salve in but mind the thinnest skin here and on the arch.”

Porthos nodded along and took the salve pot from the physician.

“I’ll see you all in the morning.” He moved around to face Aramis more directly and did not remind them again to watch for signs of infection. They all knew – they also all knew how likely it was and that it was more a matter of when. “Pierre has been clamoring to visit. I will assure him you are well and resting.”

“Perhaps…”

“In a few days’ time, yes, perhaps he can visit. I’d like you a bit stronger before then.” Corbeau moved towards the door but called over his shoulder. “Although you are aware how persistent he can be.”

Athos had finished his own meal with d’Artagnan assisting and both their plates were being set back on the main table for the soldiers to remove by the youngest.

“Think you can heat that broth?” Porthos called over from his seat against the far post of the bed. He was angled along the foot of the bed to work the salve into Aramis’ ankles before rewrapping the bandages.

With both injured men tucked in, d’Artagnan crouched at the fire to re-heat the broth and heard Aramis implying a story might go well with dinner. He was content to let Porthos and Aramis engage in stilted bickering until he heard the implication that if Athos would be occupied assisting Aramis eat he couldn’t possibly narrate.

“Wait…stories?” At the end of the bed d’Artagnan was angled towards them both and swiveling his head between them in amused disbelief. “Athos. Tells stories?”

“Mmm…the best.” Aramis nestled deeper into his pillow stack.

“Got a good voice for it.”

“Does multiple.”

“Right.” Porthos winked at d’Artagnan before glancing over at the subdued figure of Athos.

“Shame.” Aramis was also looking at Athos but patting his shoulder in sympathy.

“Yeah, with him confused,” Porthos stretched and shifted to settle Aramis’ upturned feet into his lap. “I guess it falls to me to tell one.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **No 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL**  
>  Chronic Pain | Infection

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“All human wisdom is contained in these two words - Wait and Hope.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“That is not the story of Cesarino.”

“But it is the story of d’Artagnan the Dragon Slayer!” Porthos was quite proud of his creative adjustments.

“Who doesn’t actually slay the dragon.”

“Because he befriends the dragon, Athos, with the help of Porthos the Magnificent!”

“The bear, who played a very different role originally.”

“My version improved it. Just like the wolf!”

“Aramis…the Amorous?” Athos knew he needed to give up debating the tale, but he still couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Maybe his mind was still very much confused, or he was dreaming.

“Liked…the wolf…” Aramis winked over at Porthos. He’d found himself more amused listening to Athos attempting to edit as Porthos spoke almost as much as the reimagined tale itself.

“Lions are noble, Athos!” Porthos insisted swinging around again, his scarf’s braid trailing behind with the motion. He’d still not changed out of his improvised costume or sat down from acting out several of the parts. “Athos the Angry just isn’t as compelling as Athos the Noble.”

“Has…a point. Very noble…for a noble.” Aramis nodded for emphasis, but its impact was minimized with his dropping head. He’d been making a valiant effort to stay awake, but his exhausted body and mind were making gains in their campaign to force his rest.

“So says the amorous wolf.” Athos glanced wryly at his bedmate.

“Lycan…Aramis…” Aramis began defending his fictional representation.

“Yes, yes, in Porthos’ version the wolf is now a shapeshifting seducer…”

“…romantic hero…” Aramis sniffed.

“I thought I was the hero!” D’Artagnan chimed in from between their feet at the end of the bed. He’d stretched out along the footboard against the further post once Porthos rose to perform parts of his tale.

“Not without your friends!”

“Th story is called d’Artagnan the Dragon Slayer. Not d’Artagnan and Athos the Noble, Aramis the Amorous and Porthos the Magnificent.” D’Artagnan insisted.

“Yeah, but it was my story and d’Artagnan couldn’t have done any of it without them.”

“And it should have been entitled d’Artagnan the Dragon Slayer Who Does Not Slay the Dragon.”

“You can’t just give that away Athos! You draw them in!”

Aramis kept silent and let the other three debate the merits of a tale of reforming the impetuous hero who sets out to slay a dragon. His entire world felt like a tale, like he was having another reminiscence take over for him, but it was an event he hadn’t lived. Knowing how many times his thoughts had substituted memory to escape pain his recovering mind flashed with fear.

“…Aramis!”

“Hmm?” D’Artagnan looked like he’d been trying to get his attention more than once.

“You’re awfully quiet.” Porthos had removed his accessories and was back to shirtsleeves.

“Just…thinking…”

“Shift over.” He motioned at d’Artagnan. “May as well get this next coat on you.” 

“No…it’s…”

Aramis slid his ankles slightly away when Potrhos flipped up the end of the bedclothes. “None of that, doctor’s order.”

“…I don’t…”

Potrhos cradled his right foot without lifting it off the sheet. They were both distressing to look at, but the right was gouged deep in several places. He lifted his fingers immediately after the high-pitched inhalation. “Sorry.”

“No…real…” Aramis was smiling despite the agitation.

“What was that?” Athos tapped his fingers to the back of Aramis’ hand where it rested between them.

“…not real...” Aramis exhaled a gust of breath, “…wouldn’t cause pain…”

“I’m sorry.” Porthos looked crestfallen as the words, “Aramis I…”

“No Porthos. I think he means he’s really with us.” D’Artagnan caught on to what Athos was trying to work out with Aramis. “That we’re all here.”

“When I…remembered…”

Porthos still hadn’t resumed his ministrations.

“…didn’t think…I’d see…”

“Hey. We’re real.” He clasped at the warm, exposed calf between the bandaged ankle and the braies. “You’re with us, it’s not a dream. We’ve got you.” He squeezed gently around the sliver of skin not marked with lash marks or deep cuts. “You’re safe.”

He hoped Aramis had felt it and understood before he’d dropped back to sleep. 

“I can take the bed by the fire.” D’Artagnan offered, attempting to allow Porthos to be nearer to their brothers.

“Don’t bother, I’ll sit up for a bit when I finish.” He still made no move to resume his efforts.

“He didn’t mean that, Porthos.” D’Artagnan tried to soothe.

“Bruising from bastinado is expected but lacerations rare.” Athos reasoned. “The damage on his feet makes it doubtful it was executed with a rod or lash.”

“Don’t think there was much protocol in any of this.”

“All the more reason those tears need treating.”

Porthos nodded slowly, his hands hovering as he looked the length of the blankets remembering just how much was hidden underneath.

“It’s just,” Porthos began again, “so much. Barely any skin on him that ain’t torn up.”

“All looked at.” They’d all seen the too still body hanging in the dark. They’d all remained and helped when they could as Corbeau and Gaudet sought every wound. “It’s just time now, he needs rest.”

“He was less confused. We should have asked more questions.”

“Porthos, as unfactual as it was,” Athos glanced over at the sleeping face beside him, “I’m sure he appreciated your story more than any catalog of his injuries.”

“We already know anyway,” d’Artagnan shrugged in uncharacteristic melancholy. They’d all seen wounds, had their own and helped with each other’s. What they’d encountered in that rough-hewn room was something nightmarish. To d’Artagnan it still seemed impossible that Aramis had survived. “I’ll help Corbeau make up my mom’s salve too.”

“Yeah.” Porthos stroked precisely over one ankle bone. “That’d be good.”

“He seemed to be alert.” D’Artagnan offered.

“Should have talked more. I just thought a distraction would be better.”

“There will be time to discuss what he found.”

“I don’t care about that.” Porthos raised his fists to clench them rather than gripping the fragile ankles before him.

“Porthos.” Athos admonished gently.

“He’s more important.” Porthos crooked his fingers to gather more from the small pot.

“Corbeau and Gaudet did everything they could.” They’d all been there as the men worked for hours to find and treat every bit of damaged flesh.

“And it still might not be enough.” Porthos didn’t look up as he reapplied the salve. “You saw him too. You can’t tell me if he’s gonna walk again. His thigh’s a ruin. He’s…”

“Going to have excellent care.” Athos addressed the bent head.

D’Artagnan settled onto the closer bed. “Do you want anything else Athos? You should have more water.”

Athos turned away from Porthos slowly, noting the extra pitcher at the bedside. They’d pushed as much water as he could stand at Aramis after getting him to finish the broth. Eating and ablutions were the same chore they always proved when one of them was impeded with injury. Porthos had paused his dramatic narrative several times to assist and despite all help Aramis still exhausted himself through his minimal efforts.

“Later. I’ll be up for a bit yet.” He shifted his eyes back up to Porthos.

Porthos continued his work and had already indicated an intention to stay awake for some time. D’Artagnan knew that meant he probably wouldn’t sleep much if at all.

“Well, if none of us are planning to sleep maybe we should keep each other entertained?”

“Planning to try your luck at storytelling?”

“I think I’ll leave that to Porthos. And you…” D’Artagnan brought his legs onto the thin mattress and crossed them. “When you’re feeling better.”

“Of course, he’ll tell some.” Porthos finally looked away from the ankles he was rebandaging and winked. “He’d not turn down an injured man’s request.” Porthos added when Athos looked like he might decline.

“Perhaps Aramis will want me to rest and recover.” He refused to acknowledge Porthos’ chuckle. “And neither you nor d’Artagnan are wounded.”

“I am!” D’Artagnan’s enthusiasm to witness Athos telling a story overrode his desire to keep his earlier obtained injury hidden. He’d been looking after it initially but in all their trekking about he’d gotten a little lax about its care.

“What? When?” Athos’ gaze still took a little longer to track, the blue blown wide and his lids drooping in tiredness.

“It’s alright, I looked it over already.” Porthos affirmed without turning to either of them, “Wouldn’t hurt to look it over again though.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” D’Artagnan asserted placing his elbows to his knees. “And there’s no signs of infection.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Porthos slid off the end of the bed and resettled the linens to cover his work. “Already got these two to look after, let’s just be sure you’re going to be helping me and not joining them in there.” Porthos flicked his eyes to the bed as he made his way over to d’Artagnan.

“I do not need looking after.”

“Fine.” With his back half to Athos he rolled his eyes at d’Artagnan and called over his shoulder. “We’ll just say you’re helping look after Aramis at close range.”

D’Artagnan snorted.

“It’s not as though we’ve not done so before.” Athos angled his head back settling further into the plush pillows.

D’Artagnan was surprised Athos hadn’t debated the point that he was going to remain laid up with Aramis. He arched his brow up at Porthos his gaze following the man down as he sat beside him on the cot. “Aramis not always an easy patient?”

“Plenty of reasons to keep a close eye on him, but he generally follows doctor’s orders.”

“Much better than mine at any rate.” Athos chimed in drily from the bed, eyes still closed.

“You know him, just needs to be properly incentivized.” Porthos called over as he took up d’Artagnan’s arm.

D’Artagnan snatched it back but acquiesced and rolled up his sleeve on seeing Porthos’ disappointment. “Just a bit tender at the edges.”

“Looks good,” Porthos examined the healing skin.

“Hardly qualifies then.”

Porthos just shook his head at Athos’ comment, he winked across to d’Artagnan, “We’ll get Aramis to ask him tomorrow.”

Athos drew his eyes open and rolled his neck to focus on his bedmate. He wouldn’t object to such an ask, or much else the man might request in coming days. Porhos’ offer broke his thoughts.

“Guess that leaves us cards then.” He nodded to the chair. “Go sit, he can help you, it’d be too easy otherwise.”

Athos sat up a bit and arched one brow. “You’d take advantage of my state?”

“That’s why I’m letting you be a team.” He smiled broadly as his hands began to shuffle.

“No cheating then?”

“Who cheats? D’Artagnan’s been getting better, he shouldn’t need to.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at Porthos, but dutifully loped over to take a seat. Athos didn’t bother to respond.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Advisement from Athos proved minimal. What advice there was d’Artagnan found himself gently ignoring as Athos was clearly still experiencing vision symptoms. He was mistaking the card faces, seeing three spades wen there were two or five of a suit when there were only four on the actual card.

“Let me get that.” Porthos stacked the deck back to one pile and took the empty pitcher from d’Artagnan. “Let’s swap for a bit?”

“Just because you lost some hands?”

“Don’t get cocky now.” Porthos moved to take another pitcher from the table. There was enough to last them until dawn so he just left the emptied one. He gathered some pastry and made a small plate, he’d always envied the kitchens here and decided to swing by tomorrow.

“Planning to share?” D’Artagnan was already reaching forom where he’d resettled on the smaller bed to snag a dessert.

“Ought to make you win them.” He slowed nonetheless allowing d’Artagnan to pick a few more from the plate.

“I think I might withdraw.”

“Rubbish. You can be my partner now, d’Artagnan’s getting better.” He offered the plate to Athos as he shrugged down into the chair. Porthos turned to d’Artagnan when Athos declined. “I’ll even let you deal this time.”

“We aren’t playing for these,” d’Artagnan stuffed another in his mouth before picking up the deck. Despite the muffle they were still able to make out, “they’re really good.”

“Yeah.” Porthos bit into another one himself but was more intelligible since he ate the pastry in a few bites. “Cooks here really make a decent spread.”

“We’ll be sure to tell Serge when we get back to Paris.” Athos gave in and took the half of the choux Porthos broke to offer.

“Maybe he’ll make more pies then.”

“Perhaps,” Athos inclined his head in thanks and reached for a cup. “Or perhaps you’ll find your stew having the least share of meat.”

“That one’s mine.”

Athos glanced inside and tightened his grip. “A moment ago you were offering to share.”

“And I will, all the pastry or food you want.” Porthos unbent the grip round the cup, an obvioulsly weaker grip than it normally would be. “But no alcohol tonight.”

“Porthos.”

“You know I’m right.” Porthos exchanged the cup for one with water. “Water only. Don’t make me wake him to tell you.”

A jest, perhaps, but Athos took it to heart. Aramis often insisted on getting them to drink when injured considering how much water they’d foisted on him earlier Athos wouldn’t argue. “For tonight.” He took the cup.

“I want to question him tomorrow.”

“He might still be confused, Porthos.”

“Not Aramis. Corneul.”

“That’s not up to us.”

“But we will be able to,” d’Artagnan had stopped shuffling and was eyeing them both. “Won’t we?”

“That’s up to Fournier and Treville.”

“We’ll get in there.” Porthos assured d’Artagnan.

“Porthos we need to be careful.”

“Careful!”

“Shh,” Athos rubbed his forehead. “I only mean we need to be cautious in how we proceed. He’ll be of interest to the Cardinal, perhaps even Louis himself.”

“You don’t think we’ll be allowed to question him?”

“Maybe not officially.” Athos looked over at Aramis before addressing d’Artagnan. “We will find a way. There may be more to uncover.”

D’Artagnan folded his hands under his chin. “I still don’t understand how Corneul had a weapon.”

“No. He was searched.” Porthos asked, Athos, “You think he had help?” He knew his memory of events was likely hazy.

“Concealed maybe? A buckle or a boot?” D’Artagnan speculated.

“Hell of a cut for the kind of weapon that could be hidden.” Porthos frowned over at him.

“Can you remember anything at all Athos?” D’Artagnan handed the reshuffled cards to Porthos. “You didn’t feel anything?”

“A jolt hitting the ground.” Athos winced as he slid further down. “I don’t…I don’t remember feeling more than some sharp aches.”

“And you all were soaked through riding out there.” Porthos reasoned. He was still upset they hadn’t checked him over further afterwards.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan called.

Porthos leant forward on the chair.

“You should get some sleep too.”

“Porthos I can move to the other bed.”

“Thanks, but I’ll turn in later. Really.”

Whatever d’Artagnan might have recognized in Porthos’ gaze he settled down. “You’ll wake me if you need?”

Porthos nodded distractedly, his eyes on the fireplace.

“Porthos.”

“I promise.” He turned over to d’Artagnan. “If I need.”

What d’Artagnan found in his words or his gaze this time assured him once more. His boots were on the floor already and he quicky stripped off his trousers. Tucking under the sheets he rolled to his side facing Porthos and the master bed. “Goodnight then.”

Porthos made the effort to smile slightly. “Night.”

He knew he wouldn’t sleep much, and he’d probably not wake d’Artagnan either.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Porthos must’ve been asleep only minutes, nodding off without meaning to. He’d gotten up to stoke the fire and felt exhausted when he sat back down. His last memory was checking where each of his friends lay sleeping. He looked over the room again, searching for what might have woken him. The previously endless cacophony of the unseasonal storm had calmed which made noises, like the crackling fire, stand out more in contrast.

His mood wilted a bit when he realized the whimpering wasn’t coming from any hound about the garrison but his brother twitching in sleep.

He cut his eyes quickly over to where d’Artagnan lay sleeping and decided not to wake him if the soft sounds hadn’t. As he moved for the bed, he saw Athos’ hand hovering over Aramis’ in the low light cast by the fire.

“How long?”

“Just a few minutes, getting more frequent.” Athos tapped gently against the back of Aramis’ hand where it twitched on the mattress between them.

“I’ll go around.”

Athos nodded, peripherally tracking Porthos but keeping his gaze on Aramis as he grew more agitated. 

“I’m only grabbing him if he swings behind.” Porthos was tensed hovering around Aramis’ knees clearly hoping not to have to take hold of him.

Athos had been trying to rouse the man enough that he’d settle without fully waking. Given his own circumstances he was hardly one to ascertain lucidity; he hoped Aramis was just irritated from lingering pain and not caught in memories or twisted imaginings. He wouldn’t mind getting hit if it meant sparing Aramis from wrenching his back and his many wounds. 

In the few moments Athos took to orient his thoughts Aramis’ hand had slipped from under his soothing fingers. The sounds he made were louder now, and he’d drawn his knees closer to his chest as he shifted more on his side. Aramis had gotten his other hand free from beneath the pillows and was clawing at the bandages over his throat.

“Aramis, no.” Athos tried to reach for him, but hesitated as a cry broke through Aramis’ parted lips.

His breathing was ragged as he tore at the cloth coverings. In his bewilderment he was yanking the loose knots tighter, but was splitting the fabric itself in his struggle.

“He’s going to rip them off.” Like Athos, Porthos hovered suspended in indecision against the pain he might cause compared to what Aramis was causing himself. 

“And his skin with them.” Athos grumbled softly.

Athos weighted his own involvement the lesser evil and reached to wrap his hands over the bandages at Aramis’ wrists. The bandages were partially covered by his sleeves, so Athos risked tightening his grip to pull the questing hands away. Already he could make out blood on the writhing fingers tips.

“Stop. Aramis, it’s all right.” Athos was unsure if his grip was just weaker or the terror of Aramis’ panic made him stronger. His arms wouldn’t budge. “Let go.”

He flicked his eyes to Porthos hoping for inspiration. Unwilling to grasp him from behind unless necessary Porthos shook his head. “Try his shoulder.”

Athos kept one hand around Aramis’ wrist, and sat up slightly for better leverage. He moved his right arm to shake gently at Aramis’ left shoulder. For now he avoided clasping it, still trying to wake the man without panicking him further. 

When the harsh breaths started to intersperse the high-pitched keens, Athos grabbed his other wrist again. He hissed sternly as though giving an order, “Aramis!”

The spasming body stilled; in a heartbeat Aramis exploded into motion.

Athos wound up with the anticipated hit to his cheek, followed by a knee to his abdomen. When Porthos managed to hook his bent arm underneath Aramis’ elbow to stop his next strike Athos caught a kick to the shin.

“Easy, easy.” Porthos moved along with Aramis’ disoriented motions, trying to contain him without letting him injure himself as he came awake. “Shh. C’mon. It’s just Athos. Take it easy. We’re here.”

Porthos kept the hold as loose as he was able, twisting himself so Aramis wouldn’t strain more than could be avoidable. “You’re safe.”

The sound that tore through Aramis’ throat was one neither man had heard in battle, illness, through wounds, brawls, or drunken misery, but it encapsulated all those pains and more. Neither ever wanted to hear it again and it drove Porthos to desperation.

“Please Aramis,” he applied as much pressure as he dared to the back of Aramis’ neck with his free hand, “we’re right here.”

Whether it was his tone of voice or the touch to his neck Aramis exhaled raggedly before deflating. His left arm hung heavy where Porthos still had his own interlocked and his right fell sharply to the bed as Athos wasn’t prepared for the sudden slackening in resistance. He took the opportunity to place his hand over Aramis' where it settled to the bed, keeping his pressure light.

He kept his voice soft, “Aramis?”

The swelling to his left eye kept it mostly closed, but Aramis opened his other near fully despite the bruising surrounding it.

“Athos?” His breathing was still labored but he’d remained still as he was trying to assess his surroundings.

“Porthos is behind you.” He kept his eyes on Aramis, willing him not to startle, “you’re in Foix. With us.”

“Awake?” Every time Aramis had woken up these past days it was to new pain. Every time he came out of a memory he was further from them and closer to dying.

“Yeah. It’s not a dream,” Porthos eased his arm down to Athos’ waiting support, guiding him against jolting the broken finger. He carded his hand slowly into the sweaty hair curling at his nape, “we’re here.”

“I think” Aramis’ voice hitched, and he began to reach toward his throat.

Athos turned their hands before he could reach the compromised bandaging. “Don’t try to touch, we need to look at that.”

“Bleeding?” Aramis eyed his fingers rubbing them together feeling the slickness on the pads.

“A bit, you scratched at it before we could stop you.” Porthos informed him.

“Let us take care of it.” Athos resisted sitting up further not wanting to tower over the prone man. “Unless you’d rather we send for Corbeau?”

“How bad?”

Athos leant in closer to evaluate the damage. “You’ve torn open skin in a few places, nothing too deep. It can probably wait until morning for the doctor if we clean it and rebandage.”

Aramis nodded tightly, easing slightly when Porthos removed his hand to move further down his side.

“Stay still,” Athos rolled over and reached for the bowl of water. He was grateful to be turned away when the pain to his side caught him off guard.

“Athos?” Porthos called when he didn’t turn back. “Let me get the rest.”

Athos didn’t object and turned back to them carefully so as not to dump the water.

“Did I?” Aramis bypassed his neck to point to his own swollen eye without touching it.

“It’s fine, barely hit.”

“It’ll bruise.”

“Couldn’t be avoided.”

“Sorry.”

“Fortunately, I’ve been confined to bed. Now keep still.”

Athos took the cloth Porthos offered and dipped it into the clean water as Porthos moved to retrieve ointment and more salve that Corbeau had left. He reached over to start dabbing at the blood, but Aramis flinched before he could begin.

“I have to, Aramis.”

“I know.”

“I could try to talk you through,” Athos turned his hand over to offer the damp cloth, “if you’d rather try yourself?”

“No. Wait though?” he dropped his eyes and shifted a bit trying to locate Porthos.

“Of course.”

“Do you want me to keep to Athos’ side?”

“It’s okay.” Aramis turned to where Porthos waited at the foot of the bed. “Is the back bleeding?”

“Some,” Porthos confirmed, “it’ll need tending.”

Aramis inclined his head and nodded over his shoulder before turning back to Athos. Porthos moved around but hesitated again. The edge of Aramis’ mouth lifted with a snort, he’d been pulled and yanked around with such lack of regard it was so odd to have anyone wait on his consent, “Please, sit.”

Porthos’ nod went unseen due to the angle. He sat on the side of the mattress where Aramis’ bent knees created a space and if Aramis turned his head he would be able to see him. At the moment Aramis angled his chin minutely upwards to indicate to Athos he could begin anew. 

Cleaning the cuts didn’t require the same level of accuracy as reading cards, and with Athos so close to the stiffly held neck he was able to work precisely. Aramis’ discomfort was palpable in the air, the way a deer freezes in anticipation before flight, but he held still and allowed the work. Athos worked in silence, the drops from refreshing and wringing the cloth overloud between them. 

The gentle wiping unbalanced Aramis more than the echoes of fear from being restrained. His mind flooded all at once with disconnected memories before warm liquid slid off the tip of his nose. He kept his gaze to the sheets but sensed Athos shift to look up and halt his ministrations when he felt it drop to his own hand.

“Sorry, I – ”

“None of that, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

He sniffed frowning at himself. “Foolish.”

“It’s not.” Porthos insisted, he placed his hand to Aramis’ hip, the touch as light as lifting a card from the table.

“Corneul –”

“The collar.” Athos didn’t ask.

Aramis nodded anyway, another drop sliding off his cheek onto Athos’ arm. Athos folded the damp cloth to a fresh patch and pressed it under Aramis’ eyes. “Pierre told us some of what occurred. We gleaned a bit more from the others.” 

“Tell us whatever you want,” Porthos told him, “when you’re ready: some of it or not at all.”

“It’s blurred together.” Aramis swallowed thickly and didn’t elaborate.

Athos swapped to a soft cloth to pat the skin dry. He’d done a cursory cleaning to the back of Aramis' neck blind, but either he or Porthos would need to see it to apply the ointment. He silently signaled Porthos.

“Hey, lift up a bit,” Porthos leant down to pull two of the pillows they’d slipped out from under Aramis’ original pile of them as he’d slumped during Porthos’ story. “No sense straining your neck when we’re trying to heal it.”

Athos used the excuse to support him to swipe at the remaining tracks under his right eye and cradle his cheek. Once Porthos had the extra pillow in place he guided Aramis to relax into the soft pile. Athos gave Aramis a moment by gathering the cloths into the tinted water and moving the bowl off the bed.

“My memory’s confused.”

“So’s his. There’s no rush.” Porthos tapped at his hipbone. “You all right to let me work back here?”

Beneath the thin shirt he could see the tension pull and release along Aramis’ shoulders. He waited until he received a nod in response before moving. Corbeau and he had left the front untied, so it slid easily down to expose a wider field of view.

Athos had bent to place the bowl on the floor giving Aramis a clear sight of d’Artagnan lain across from them. He watched the curve of his shoulder illuminated by the firelight before Athos sat up again. He was close enough to his brother to notice him wavering as he resettled on the bed.

“Dizzy?”

“It’ll pass.”

“D’Artagnan.”

Porthos’ hands stilled, and Athos looked askance at Aramis first before seeking confirmation from Porthos that he’d heard correctly. 

“Awake.”

Porthos and Athos looked over on reflex in time to catch d’Artagnan’s mouth twist. He blinked his eyes open in the next breath and looked at them plainly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Nonsense.” Aramis paused to take a breath. He couldn’t see through Athos to d’Artagnan but made his summons clear. “Porthos will need more light.”

D’Artagnan didn’t bother to dress further and retrieved the requested candle before rounding the bed.

“Here, that’s perfect.” Porthos smiled at d’Artagnan without taking his eyes from Aramis’ neck. “Hold still.”

Aramis wasn’t sure if that was directed at him, d’Artagnan, or both, but as uneasy as he was having two people behind it was preferable to having to face them all at once. Images flickered at the edges of his mind and flashed several times he’d been stood over in captivity. He breathed in sharply trying to enforce upon himself that he was surrounded by his brothers. Free. He was safe. Clothed. Warm. Not leashed.

“What was that?”

Athos had lain down on his back, a few pillows making him level with Aramis. He’d turned his head, presumably on hearing Aramis speak out loud some of what he’d been thinking. Athos didn’t prompt again, but remained turned, his face inches from Aramis’ own. Close enough to mark the path of the lone tear that slid over the bridge of his nose to the pillow.

“Like an animal.” He was grateful Porthos didn’t cease his movements. “The collar, leash.” He wasn’t even surprised when Porthos’ strokes grew firmer.

“Well he’s the one chained up now.” Porthos assured him. “And he’ll answer for it. All of it.”

Aramis took comfort from that, he knew Porthos – all of them – would take the vengeance he’d told himself they would in his absence. He’d not given much thought to his role should he survive. He’d prayed he would, knowing how likely it was he wouldn’t, and clinging to the improbable outcomes their friendship nearly always made possible.

His musing distracted him enough for Athos to complete applying salve to his throat and the sides of his neck that Porthos didn’t attempt. “Scars?”

Athos drew up his mouth on one side. “Hard to tell.” With Aramis calmer he traced more ointment over a deeper furrow in the skin. “Some of these are deep. You need to leave them alone.”

From anyone else Aramis would have bristled.

“Could you stand a thicker bandage?”

“Athos.” Porthos sounded doubtful.

“Not tighter, or wider, just thicker. To cushion further.”

“And time to stop me?”

“That too.” Both sides of Athos’ mouth twitched this time. “D’Artagnan would you bring some more?”

Their youngest was back in moments at Athos’ side and held the candle closer to give him a better view.

“That bad?” Aramis was looking at him but without accusation.

“It looks worse than it is?” D’Artagnan shrugged. Internally he was berating himself for wearing his emotions openly.

“Wish all of it was.”

Athos broke up their exchange, tipping Aramis’ chin. “Porthos?”

Once Porthos slid his hand between Aramis’ scalp and the pillow it gave Athos space to start rewrapping.

“I don’t understand why he –” D’Artagnan cut himself off and instantly regretted speaking aloud.

“Some men are just cruel.” Porthos tapped his thumb to the top of Aramis’ head. “Nothing we do makes them that way, they just are. Saw a man passing near the Court one day. He had a loaf a bread he was tearing bits from. He offered a chunk to a group of kids playing. Turning down food might be rare, but most knew better than trust it. I was around their age, but already knew nothing much comes without cost. One of the younger boys took him up on it, got closer. That’s when he dropped it. Waiting to gloat when it got picked up. And when the lad still got closer, he ground it under his boot. Nothing but crumbs in that dirt.”

“That’s awful.”

“Wasteful too.” Porthos nodded over to d’Artagnan. “Man cared more about hurting some kids though. Never figured out why. He never tried it when there were adults near.”

“He did it more than once?”

“Yep. Sat down one time with a bowl of stew in early winter. Different spot. Lot of Court kids played there, begged, pickpocketed too. He offered and snatched the bowl back, kicking at the ones who tried getting close. When he finally let one get in arm’s reach he dumped the whole thing out.” He paused lost for a minute, but before anyone could ask he continued with a tiny smile. “There was snow on the ground, cold enough to be frozen. Couple of the youngest managed to salvage some bits once he was gone.”

Aramis shivered.

_“You want to eat?”_

He could hear Corneul closer than Porthos’ own voice right above him.

_“You beg for it.”_

“You cold?”

Porthos slipped his hand free, Athos had passed him the bandage ends to secure. He was about to look for another blanket when the whispered rasp came.

“It was grass.”

D’Artagnan didn’t care if he looked openly upset at that. Porthos didn’t see, he’d closed his eyes after looking murderously at nothing and then like he wanted to cry for a minute. Aramis was not looking at anyone. Athos took the candle from him when his hand kept shaking. He couldn’t have said whether it was rage or sadness that caused him to waver. 

“Anywhere else,” Porthos paused to keep from growling out the rest, “that we need to check?” 

“Everywhere aches.” Aramis didn’t move, just closed his eyes. “Tired.”

“We could all use some sleep, you too Porthos.” Athos asserted. He reached to brush at Aramis’ forehead. “You’re a bit warm.”

Aramis blinked his one eye mostly open. “Bound to happen.”

“Someone ought to stay up then.”

“Not you.” D’Artagnan insisted. “I will”

Porthos looked ready to argue, he hadn’t moved from behind Aramis.

“I’ve had the most sleep. It makes sense.” D’Artagnan hoped his expression conveyed his normal stubbornness. He would not back down on this. “Take the closer bed. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

Athos raised his brow at Porthos when D’Artagnan moved to drag the chair nearer the end of the bed. It put his back fully to the fire but let him have full view of both men in the master bed.

“Go.” Aramis pushed his elbow back, nowhere near where Porthos actually was but the message was clear. “No good without sleep.”

“Well, I know when I’m not wanted.” Porthos allowed the laugh into his voice. “You get back to sleep and keep your hands away from your neck. Mind my bandaging.”

“Yours?”

“Ours.”

Porthos conceded to all of them as he finally got up. He stretched and gave into a yawn as he made his way to the bed d’Artagnan had previously occupied.

D’Artagnan settled into the chair, glad that the rearrangement provided him a view to watch over all three of his brothers.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR   
> Reluctant Bedrest | Comfort

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_“Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity.”_

– A. Dumas

⚜⚜⚜⚜

_In the dark he counted each beat of his heart – made more frantic with trapped breath – as it battered his ribs. His torso swayed and his lungs pulsed with the strain of confinement, like a creature trying to escape the hunter’s sack._

_Aramis inclined his head back praying the tilt would relieve the weight on the ends of the heretic’s fork piercing him. The pressure was a heavy threat as even the minuscule motions from breathing agitated the metal prongs. He was unabashed in his appreciation of a woman’s direction by a yank of his beard or manicured nails under his chin, angling his gaze; the bi-pronged metal holding him upright in the dark was agonizing, arousing only anxiety._

_He shivered, unamused by the double entendre of pointed reflection in his chilled cell. There were many purposes and accountings of use, but the fork was often used to deprive a prisoner of sleep and the forced penitent could be kept awake for days resulting in the desired confessions. None of their other methods had worked thus far and Aramis was resolved this new treatment would prompt nothing from him._

_He’d distinguished the blood sliding along not just from the origin points but that it was thicker and warmer than the sweat. The damp room had cooled the sheen on his skin but could not counter the temperature of fresh wounds. His ankles leaked out similar warmth as bloody, thin rivulets slipped along the ropes. He’d ached for memories to help him drift in that damp hole in the earth._

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Perhaps his dreamed memories were now alerts indicating areas of concern, a result of his clearing mind. He could hope.

On waking he could feel the phantom slickness in his beard. The bit of the sky revealed from the window was gray, those pewter colored clouds always enhanced a body’s pains. His field of vision had slightly increased, but his view was like that through the gossamer of a highborn lady’s veil: hazy and teasing at the full picture of the world. The widened scope of his eye brought a sharp throb to his temple, the bruised skin testing its new range.

Hair edged into curls on the pillow across from him, but no woman he’d ever lain with was quite so hirsute. He was certain his bedmate, while noble, would be less inclined to accede to his pre-dawn cuddles. His cheeks heated as he recalled his unfortunate outpour of distress, what was likely only hours ago, and he blamed his panicked dreams. As great a temptation as it was to wake Athos his memories of the previous outburst were floating into his mind and he was loath to pilfer even the slightest rest from his friends. Instead he slid his hand under his chin ruefully, unsurprised that his beard was wet: surprised that it was trimmed. He’d known he’d been tended, but not observed much about his grooming beyond being clean and bandaged. He prodded the skin gently once again, mindful not to prod too deep, but found no stitches.

“Aramis!”

The hissed voice was unique in the tone of reprimand, but matched Athos and Porthos’ in the concern behind it. 

“Ah,” he levered up just to get his right arm beneath him for support. “Good morning.” His attempt at levity was only marginally spoiled by the stained fingers of his left hand.

“Here.” In the meantime d’Artagnan had retrieved a cup of water and cloth. He wet the latter and passed over the former with the dampened fabric.

Aramis slid the material between his fingers to clean them and smirked at d’Artagnan before draining the cup. He let the empty vessel fall to the bed and pressed the cloth under his chin.

“Should I send for Corbeau?”

Aramis shook his head still applying minimal pressure to the puncture marks, the skin was tender but pained him no worse than any other part. The hazy color of the room signaled it was barely near dawn and he didn’t want the intrusion as much as he did not wish to disturb the doctor so early. 

“I am well,” he pulled back to view the wet cloth and held it up for d’Artagnan to display the small drops. He refolded it to press again as a compress to staunch any remaining flow.

Checking the fabric again Aramis passed it back to d’Artagnan.

“Yes, fit and hale,” d’Artagnan’s quirked lips accented his sarcasm, but decided not to press. Having the benefit of time spent and more experience with the older men, he drew from what he’d observed of exchanges amongst them and changed tactics. “All right. If you’re sure you can wait. More water then?” He extended his arm for the discarded cup.

D’Artagnan huffed at Aramis’ head shake. “You know they’ll only make you when they wake.”

Aramis waved his hand in observance of the two sleeping musketeers and smiled over at his standing brother.

“Fair.” D’Artagnan kept his voice at the same low volume of their previous exchange. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Aramis quirked his lips and even with his eyes marred by deep bruising d’Artagnan recognized the spark of mischief.

“Within reason.” He qualified.

Aramis took a breath undeterred.

“And something you’d just as soon ask of Athos.”

Aramis pursed his lips, opportunity forfeited. He let his eyes track about the room. The bed was a luxury, the blankets, the thick pillows, even being clothed again more than fulfilled his needs, and his brothers’ presence far exceeded all of it. Assured of their company and his freedom from Corneul there was little he wished to think of beyond that.

D’Artagnan extended his hand back to take the cup and exchanged it to offer Aramis more folded cloth. This time the fabric was recognizable by its delicate lace edging. Aramis curled his fingers over the kerchief, mindful of the splinted ones, and brought it up to his face also mindful not to bring it near potential wounds.

“It smells like jasmine. Was that her favorite scent?” D’Artagnan quirked his brows and grinned down at Aramis’ careful handling.

“How did you know…”

“Porthos mentioned it was from your ‘first love’” D’Artagnan smiled more broadly. “I’m surprised you’ve had it so long. Who was she? You must have been what, thirteen, fifteen?”

“Five.”

“Come again?”

“Well I am sure I loved her before then,” Aramis paused voice softened in memory and lighter with the disuse of his throat, “but my first distinct memory of her is when I was five.”

“Five.” D’Artagnan was in disbelief at Aramis’ nodding before he realized with amusement, “That was your mother’s?” D’Artagnan’s voice was more declarative than inquiring. 

“It was.” He fingered the fabric lightly.

If pressed, he’d say it was because of them all d’Artagnan carried nothing suitable for their intended signals, but when Aramis had given it to him he’d hoped it a token comfort and a gesture for their safe reunion. As he was thinking on his own fortunate recovery from captivity he shivered, taken unexpectedly by an internal chill. Lifting himself to lean upright had dropped the blankets to his waist and the unlaced shirt billowed open – ineffectual in warming him alone.

“Just rest for a bit, I’ll get another blanket. You’re rather lucky they’ve given us such well-stocked quarters.”

“And by God’s grace” Aramis risked raising his brows as he looked up at d’Artagnan and grinned, “or the Devil’s luck that you found me.”

D’Artagnan paced back past the chair he’d been occupying at the end of the bed to tend the fireplace.

“I have long suspected you Lucifer in disguise.”

Aramis looked over at his companion who was eyeing him critically – one brow and one corner of his mouth raised as Athos studied him from below. He let his breath puff out in a laugh and leaned closer, “Was it my exquisite beauty or great wisdom that revealed me?”

The rumble of Aramis’ stomach provided them both with a response before Athos could speak. Inordinately loud in comparison to their soft voices and owing much to the malnourishment of many days on meager provisions it took several breaths for the gurgling rumble to subside. He would have admitted hunger without his body testifying for him, but he wondered if he should also confess to being exhausted already from such slight efforts at moving.

“Perhaps something heartier today?” Athos waved d’Artagnan’s arm as he returned with the promised blanket further to ensure the younger man dropped the heavy bundle mostly over Aramis and flipped back those over himself. He slid to the right but before he could cast his feet towards standing his chest was prevented upward momentum by three hands bearing him down. Athos could have pushed back against d’Artagnan’s hands at his shoulders, he contemplated his leverage momentarily, but was unwilling to jostle the splinted hand resting on his sternum. The damaged hand he’d seen in deadly gestures, though it trembled intermittently at present, weighed on him more than the full strength of d’Artagnan’s upper body pressing him down. He abandoned the unequal struggle and resettled beneath the linens. “If you are so loath to give up my company this morning, shall we send d’Artagnan to fetch your breakfast?”

“A wise suggestion,” Aramis’ fingertips drummed light patterns as he spoke. “Perhaps your mind is clearing?”

D’Artagnan righted himself only to have to lean back over to smooth the additional blanket from the rumpled pile it had made. His gaze flicked between the two of them, but he uncharacteristically swallowed back his sharp opinion. Porthos was silent still, but d’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder on straightening in a weak moment of debate over waking the man to enlist support.

“My mind? I assure you my mind is clear and before you attempt a treatise to debate that let us remember that Porthos and you need rest.” Athos turned to look up at their newest musketeer, “And d’Artagnan may claim his own once he retrieves a plate for you.”

Athos closed his eyes expecting to be heeded by both men; he felt the fingers still and heard d’Artagnan walk away.

“I take it back.”

Athos breathed out sharply but refused to open his eyes to Aramis’ hovering or engage him. He strategized extraction from the solitary hand upon him, but once again the subtle trembling thwarted him.

“How is your wound then?”

Athos caught the bandaged wrist, encircling the questing limb more with the placement of his hand than any pressure.

“I am certain it may be looked over when you are seen to, it will keep until then.” He studied the man leaning above him and released his tentative hold in favor of sliding himself upwards against the headboard. “Aside from hunger, are you all right? You ought to be sleeping. Do not tell me you are bored already?”

Aramis had withdrawn his arm and diverted it to the bedclothes pulling them further up to ward his increasing chill. His gaze drifted a bit, but the wandering seemed more from lack of sleep than his previous addled state. Taking the tease for the balm it was meant Aramis dropped more weight to his nest of pillows, “With such diverting company? Never.”

They dropped into silence and only the scraping of d’Artagnan’s plating and the fire’s hiss filled the large room.

“We should go through them.” Aramis indicated the direction of the bedside with a motion of his chin.

Athos turned to the small pile of books and pushed himself to a full sitting position. “They will keep until you’ve eaten.” He was stopped from saying more by the throbbing at his side, he caught himself from grasping for it but not before his eyes pinched against the pain.

Naturally it did not go unnoticed. “I could look at it.”

“While I appreciate the offer, I am fine, it’s merely tender.” Athos shrugged and closed his eyes again to wait on d’Artagnan. “Besides, you’re only just recovering and we wouldn’t want a repeat of Vaux Woods, I do not think I’d forgive you this time.”

“Pull a man’s stitches, just once…” Aramis shook his head as best he could against the pillows. 

“And as large a tub as it appears it’s hardly the Huisne: even you should have trouble drowning in that vessel while bathing.” Athos considered his bedmate again, “Although given your current state…you may manage.”

Still smiling, Aramis reopened as much of his mismatched gaze to view Athos when he shifted to take the bowl d’Artagnan had returned with. He frowned at what looked like more thin and tepid broth.

“I thought you promised hearty.” He did not intend it as a complaint, but Aramis refused to be blamed for not keeping from voicing his disappointment.

“Complaining already?” Porthos rumbled the inquiry and he appeared next to d’Artagnan as he continued his own complaint. “It’s not even properly morning.”

“And yet, already the food is not to suit.” Athos' lip pulled up along with his gaze at Porthos and he stirred the broth he held on Aramis’ behalf.

D’Artagnan crossed his arms addressing each man in turn beginning with Aramis. “Corbeau said thin and light, but I’ve sent for porridge,” he angled himself sideward to the bed. “Should you even be up yet? But there’s extra heating on the fire if you want.” He added the offer at Porthos’ look which more than indicated he’d not be laying back down and glanced away to probe for more information from Athos.

“What’s this about pulling stitches and drowning then?” He waited patiently before pushing further and watched Athos eyeing the logistics of aiding Aramis with the broth.

“Oh, they were telling you about that were they?” Porthos rocked on his bare feet before clapping d’Artagnan on the shoulder. “Best not try to pick through that adventure with them today, they’re only a bit less confused now than they were then.”

Athos rolled his head back over to them along with his eyes' upward glance. “I was hardly confused, I was unconscious.”

“‘Least until Aramis tended you.” Porthos chuckled at his own memories. “Speaking of help, here let me get him up or you two’ll have that broth everywhere.”

Aramis frowned at the bowl, at Athos, and then the pillows. He would have frowned at Porthos if the man was not already out of his vision’s scope. In the end he would concede to aid as it was going to be difficult to balance on the soft pile given how tired he felt. And, he did mark a slight tremor to his body with his intermittent chills.

“Right…” Porthos’ hands hovered just behind Aramis’ shoulders, “think you can lever up if I brace under your arms?”

“Joining us then?” Aramis didn’t turn his head, but Porthos could hear the smile from the amusement in his tone.

“Seems best, Captain ordered rest and you’ve already woken me. May as well get you two settled so d’Artagnan and I can break our own fast.”

“With all you…” Aramis flinched and steadied himself against the mattress with both hands. Even though Porthos’ hands did not stray from the mostly undamaged skin under his arms, even the top of his ribs could not take the pressure. Despite the bandages, the unbending was pulling at each cut and lash with threats to tear them open. He breathed in and out as steadily as he could manage before drawing enough to speak again. “With all you put away last night?”

Porthos didn’t stop moving to the headboard but he slowed his motions in raising Aramis upward. He knew that movement was igniting most of Aramis’ injuries, but the goal was to get him settled upright to eat and then to hopefully not move him again. “All that and more besides if I’m to be taking care of you.”

A few more stiffly drawn breaths and Porthos using his own dexterity and flexibility saw Aramis settled sideways on Porthos’ chest while the man himself braced on the feather-stuffed pillows. “I am definitely taking one of these to bed tonight.”

“Or you could just stay there, surely Aramis won’t mind?”

Aramis didn’t answer he was still trying to draw sufficient air to his lungs and a mild sheen of sweat coated his face and chest. The others contented themselves with idle talk of Corbeau and Treville’s impending visits, along with speculation over the arrival of the porridge. Porthos plucked a cloth from the smaller bedside table along the wall in the corner and pressed it to Aramis’ forehead.

“How could I? With such care in looking after us.”

“Us?”

“Seems you ain’t allowed to leave either.” Porthos quipped over to Athos. “Guess that leaves you in charge, d’Artagnan.”

“Hardly.” Athos protested, but shifted his legs inwards to make room for d'Artagnan to sit. “Though you may as well join us.”

Conversation of the practical gave way to gentle banter, bowls and plates were sorted and speech and sustenance balanced out in natural rhythm between the four. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With just a few days left in 2020 warm and best wishes to everyone who has come along on this fic experiment and hopefully enjoyed the journey. Many hugs and thanks for all the support!! Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos and sticking with this (if you did!) or picking it up somewhere along the way. Especially since October somehow gave way to December for those last few I am glad to have finished! I think this stopped at a decent point where the prompts are concerned and I really hope it's satisfying if more briefly ended. I had this whole chapter of the morning and afternoon planned and visitors and then...Porthos woke up and slid into the bed and that was that. 
> 
> I am still considering going on with this, but then I considered a whole new angle which would basically require deciding which of the four would wind up paired with Aramis when he goes...erm...missing? (Suggestions/opinions on that most welcome). Plus I need to name those horses...
> 
> So then...well, we'll see. It would definitely not be posting at the whumptober rate, but this also may just float finished as is into the ether of "happily ever after they eventually recovered and went back to Paris" assumptions.


End file.
